


The Very Witching Time

by profdanglais



Series: ...in the forest of the night... [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2019 (Once Upon a Time), Cursed!Killian, F/M, Supernatural Elements, Witch Curses, Witchcraft, Witches, magical au, witch lore, witch!emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-06-30 06:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19847476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: Emma Swan is a hereditary witch, last in a long line of wise women who for centuries have guarded the coast of Maine and the small village of Storybrooke with their homemade cures and their ancient magic. She holds the delicate balance between magic and mundane, but now that balance is threatened by a new foe, one capable of bringing an end to everything Emma is and everything she loves. To defeat it she will need all her power, help from her friends and neighbours, and the loyalty of a very unusual dog who answers to the name of Killian.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to post the first chapter of my Supernatural Summer fic! Last year at this time I was reading all the brilliant stories to come out of this event and wishing I could be a part of it and now tadaaaa!
> 
> @gingerchangeling did some AMAZING artwork for this story which you can see over on Tumblr, and while you're there if you like you can follow me, @profdanglaisstuff.

Emma Swan lived atop a jagged cliff in a house that seemed an extension of it, rising up from the wind-hewn face into pointed towers that stood stark against the sky. The house was of the same stone as the cliff itself, great slabs of it, slabs too large to be used for construction, slabs that, observing them, one felt could have been formed only by the hand of nature and never that of man. It was a part of the landscape, that house, as old as the earth and only slightly younger than the sky, perched at the edge of those perilous cliffs in a way that made it impossible to imagine them without it.

The back of the house, or rather the front, as that was where the door was set, however, presented an altogether different aspect; one of a delightful cottage of typical grey Maine clapboard, squat and cheerful with a steeply sloping roof trimmed in white and a low stone wall surrounding a tumbledown greenhouse and a garden where bushes, trees, and flowers jumbled together and neither rhyme nor reason appeared to play any role. On the casual observer the effect was charming in an artless way, yet a keener eye would note method behind the garden’s seeming madness, an ancient wisdom in the randomness of the tumbling riots of colour that shifted and transmuted with the seasons. Where in spring it boasted bright red poppies and purple larkspur, delicate white anemones and pink blossoms on the apple trees twisting around each corner of the wall, summer brought fragrant freesia and heather for the bees, its warm breezes rustling through the tall irises and lilies. Autumn ushered in the muted oranges and yellows of chrysanthemums and the fluffy white of Queen Anne’s Lace, salvia and yarrow and berries from the rowan tree. Even in winter the garden provided: the glossy green leaves and red berries of the holly bushes brightened the snowy vista as pansies and orchids flourished in the greenhouse.

Beyond the garden wall a forest sprawled, dark and wild and perilous, from the very edge of the cliff where trees clung by their gnarled roots to the borders of the village where it dwindled into fenced yards and tidy houses. Here your casual observer would feel a shivering prickle on the back of his neck, that uncomfortable sensation of being watched by things not quite of this world that is more commonly reserved for graveyards at dusk and abandoned Victorian houses. He would move quickly through the dense woodland —yet not _so_ quickly that he appeared to be hurrying— and upon emerging he would feel the sunshine as a balm on skin grown far colder than he’d realised.

The keen observer would, of course, not go into the forest at all.

Emma was as keen an observer as anyone could be but the forest, for all its determined menace, posed no threat to her. She relied on it, in fact, for ingredients she could not or did not wish to cultivate in her garden or greenhouse, just as it relied on her to keep a rein on its magic. Emma and the forest had an understanding.

That understanding failed to extend to the village which separated the forest from the lush farmlands which this stretch of Maine coastline boasted; the richest soil in New England it was said, guarded closely by the residents of Storybrooke who despite their distrust of it were prepared to put up with creepy forest at their backs in exchange for prosperity at their fronts. And though they rarely ventured into the woods themselves they were broad minded and mercenary enough to appreciate the labours of those who did, of Emma and the generations of witches who had come before her; wise women who kept the forest in check and the villagers placated with potions and tinctures, candles to encourage love or drive away evil spirits and balms to soothe every ailment from a bumped head to a broken heart.

And so, just as witches had done in Storybrooke from the time of the earliest settlement of her ancestors in this land, Emma kept an apothecary shop in the village, stocked with the wares she blended and brewed herself, travelling to and from it each day along the very same forest path that had been daily trodden by so many powerful women over the course of the centuries. 

The path was so familiar to her she could follow it in her sleep, which she almost did on the August afternoon when our tale begins, lulled by the muggy weight of the late summer air. The sunlight that shone so brightly on the village barely penetrated here; just a few slender shafts of it reached the forest floor, encouraging the growth of the rare plants on which Emma’s livelihood relied but doing little to alleviate the atmosphere made dense by damp heat and malign magic. Emma was blinking heavy eyelids, her mind on the cushioned bench in her garden that was so well suited to afternoon naps when the sound of an animal in distress wove its way into her drowsy consciousness.

It sounded like a dog, which caught her attention. Wilder, less domesticated creatures like cats and witches may feel comfortable enough with the forest’s demeanour to venture within, but dogs, being the keenest observers of all, tended to avoid it with the same diligence and for the same reasons as their humans did.

The noise came again, one that hovered somewhere between a whine and a growl, pained and frustrated. It tugged at Emma’s mind, clearing away her sleepy haze as from the corner of her eye she caught a quivering in the leaves of a hawthorn bush that twisted up from the undergrowth to the left of the path and the flash of a black tail just beyond it.

Without hesitating Emma plunged into the bracken, drawing on her own magic and that of the hawthorn as she went, wrapping threads of both around the bush’s thorny branches and pulling them aside to reveal a large black dog crouched at an awkward angle behind it. The dog looked up and when it saw her it stilled for a moment, staring at her with blue eyes that were almost shocking in its black face, a deep, clear blue she’d never seen on a dog before, bright and intelligent. It blinked and shook its head then looked at her again this time with a plea in those remarkable eyes, giving three quick, deep barks.

_{Please help me.}_

An affinity with animals was one of Emma’s gifts, and she was not surprised to hear the dog’s voice in her head. She smiled reassuringly and offered her hand.

“Hey, puppy,” she said in a low, soothing voice. “What’s the matter?”

The dog sniffed her hand then gave it a lick, its tail wagging furiously. She petted its head and scratched its ears as she slowly inched closer. It seemed remarkably calm given the circumstances but Emma had seen enough injured animals to be wary, knowing how abruptly their pain and fear could overcome them. She knelt on the ground next to it, murmuring gentle words and stroking its back, and took stock of the situation.

The dog’s front right leg was deep in what was likely a gopher hole, buried up to the middle of its shin, and though the sounds she’d heard and the state of the ground around the hole bore witness to the dog’s attempts to free itself, it was clear to Emma as indeed it would be even to the casual observer that the dog was thoroughly stuck and also that the leg was broken.

“Oh, poor baby,” she murmured. “That must hurt. I can help, if you’ll let me. Will you trust me?”

The dog looked right at her and she could see her answer in its extraordinary eyes, filled with pain but also hope and what she would swear was comprehension. It whined and gave her chin a single, gentle lick, then nodded its head.

“Well, that’s clearly a yes,” said Emma. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.” She hunched closer and examined the dog’s leg, well and truly wedged into the gopher hole, and winced. “I’m really sorry pup but this is going to hurt,” she said, looking up to catch the dog’s gaze again, marvelling at how calm it was despite its distress. She grasped its leg as gently as she could below the break and gathered her magic. “Ready? One… two…”

On three she pulled the leg from the hole, using her magic to ease its way. The dog whimpered at the pain but did not bark or growl and when its leg was free it licked her chin again.

“Okay, that’s step one,” said Emma. “Now let’s see how bad this is.” She probed the leg as delicately as she could with her fingertips, feeling the fractured bone beneath the fortunately unbroken skin. The break felt clean, with no jagged edges. “It’s not as bad as it could have been, I should be able to heal it,” she said, wondering briefly why she was explaining herself to a dog, though the animal in question was watching her intently with those intelligent eyes looking for all the world as though it knew exactly what she was saying. “I’m gonna have to set the break so there’ll be pain again and then I’ll heal it right after. Okay?”

The dog gave a short bark followed by another nod.

_{Ready.}_

“Okay, then,” said Emma. She gathered her magic, pulling it from the forest flowers and the leaves of the trees for backup, then as quickly as she could she snapped the broken bone back into place and wove her magic into it, knitting it together and soothing the pain in the damaged tissues.

When she finished she sat back on her heels with a sigh and closed her eyes. That was more magic than she’d used in some time and she felt a bit woozy. When she opened them again they fell immediately on the dog, who was staring at its leg in wonder.

Could dogs stare in wonder? She frowned, realising she didn’t actually know very much about the canine species. As a witch she’d always considered herself more of a cat person.

“Give it a try,” she told the dog. “It’s all better now.”

The dog stood up and began to walk, tentatively at first and then with greater confidence. After a few loping steps it spun around and barked excitedly before trotting back to her with a delighted expression, tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth.

Emma, however, was still frowning. Despite the dog’s obvious pleasure its gait had a distinct limp and when it moved quickly it used only three legs, forgoing the left one entirely.

Its _left_ leg… when she had healed the right.

“Hey,” she said. “Come here. Let me see that other leg.”

It limped closer and placed its left leg in her lap, a leg which she was now able to observe did not end in a paw.

“Oh, no!” she cried, bending to get a closer look at what was evidently an old injury and a badly healed one, with rough scar tissue and signs of wear where the dog had walked on it. “Oh poor you. This isn’t the first time you’ve been hurt, is it? How do you walk?”

The dog tilted its head in what was plainly a shrug.

“I guess you manage the best you can, huh? Well, I can’t give you your paw back but if you come home with me I should be able to fix you up with something to protect the end of your leg and help you walk a bit better. How does that sound?”

The dog licked her face enthusiastically and barked, and now that the press of emergency had passed she noticed the peculiar cadence of its cry.

“Aye!” barked the dog. 

Emma blinked. She may not be the world’s foremost authority on dogs, but even she knew that they were supposed to say things like “woof” or “arf.” She’d never heard of a dog saying “aye” before.

“Aye?” she repeated with a laugh. “Well, I guess that’s pretty obviously agreement.” She stood and brushed the dirt and twigs from her legs as the dog stood patiently in its slightly off-kilter way. “What should I call you?” she asked it. “I don’t suppose you have a name.”

_Killian._

The name sprang into her mind, though the dog hadn’t barked. “Killian?” she repeated, startled.

“Aye!” barked the dog.

“Really?” 

“Aye!” 

“You sure? It’s not Spot or Buster or Joe or something?”

The dog looked affronted, and she laughed again. “All right, Killian it is then. I guess that means you’re a boy.”

“Aye!”

“Well okay, Killian, let’s go. We can have some dinner and then I’ll see what I can do about that paw.”

Killian bounded in an excited circle around her, his tail a blur. He moved remarkably well, considering, she thought, even as she laughed at his antics, and soon he’d settled into a limping trot alongside her as she headed home.

When they reached her garden gate she opened it and went straight in but Killian halted with a short bark of distress. She turned in surprise at the sound to see him pacing to and fro in front of the gate, whining softly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

He whined louder and gave two short barks.

_{Not welcome.}_

“But why wouldn’t you be—” Emma frowned. The wards around her garden were designed to keep humans away, permitting none to enter without permission. But they shouldn’t have any effect on a dog.

Should they?

She really needed to learn more about dogs, she thought with mild irritation. This was clearly a gaping hole in her education.

In the meantime she called to the magic in the ancient warding spells, and spoke the age-old words to quieten them. “I see thee, Killian, and I name thee friend,” she said, in a voice that echoed through the open air. “Be welcome in this place.”

The magic of her garden surged and she held out her arms as it rippled and danced around her, ruffling her hair and gilding her skin with tiny sparks of light. Killian stared at her with wonder in his eyes again, and when the sparks faded away and she lowered her arms he cautiously stepped through the gate. The moment he crossed its threshold the garden’s magic… _sighed_ , a soft exhale that sang of enduring hopes fulfilled at too long last, and curled itself around him, ruffling his fur as it had her hair.

Now it was Emma’s turn to stare. Her magic had never done _that_ before. She gaped as Killian seemed to smirk —could dogs smirk?— at the unseen attention he was getting before rolling onto his back and letting the garden’s magic rub his tummy.

“Seriously?” cried Emma. “That’s enough of _that_ , from both of you, Killian, come inside.”

She marched over to the cottage door and pulled it open. Killian leapt to his feet and ran after her, pausing just at the doorstep to wink at the garden before trotting into her kitchen.

Could dogs wink?

Emma made a mental note to dig up a book on canine behaviours later that night. There must be one in her library. Somewhere.

“I don’t have much that’s suitable for dogs,” she warned him as she opened the icebox. “But I think I’ve got some hamburgers in here if that’s okay—”

“Aye! Aye!”

“Okay, let me just heat them up.”

She defrosted the hamburgers with some gentle warming magic and put them on a plate for him. The minute she set it on the floor he dove in, gobbling up the meat with enthusiasm bordering on frenzy.

“Wow, you _were_ hungry! How long has it been since you ate?”

He looked up at her and licked his chops, tail wagging vigorously, and barked twice before digging in again.

_{Long time.}_

“Well, don’t eat too fast, it’ll make you sick.”

Emma made herself a sandwich and munched it as she watched him diligently try to eat more slowly. When the last morsel was gone he lapped the plate clean then came over to her and licked her hand in thanks, wagging his tail as she scritched his ears before relaxing back onto his haunches and giving her the opportunity to observe him.

He was, as she had noticed in the woods, a large dog, though not a bulky one, with long slender legs and lean muscles. Standing, his head reached her waist with his shoulders around the middle of her thigh. His fur was thick and shaggy and a deep, light-absorbing black, though a v-shaped tuft right in the centre of his chest was bright white and fluffy and so soft-looking that her fingers itched to pet it.

He watched her examine him with a twinkle in his blue eyes that she was certain couldn’t be normal for a dog, as though he knew what she was thinking. She popped the last bite of sandwich into her mouth and when he pouted —did dogs pout?— she gave him a small smirk. “You had your dinner,” she said firmly. “You can’t have mine too. Now what do you say we go and see what can be done about that paw.”

She stood and left the kitchen, Killian at her heels, and headed past the living room and the closed library door, through a dark and narrow passageway towards the rear of the house. As she approached, the solid-seeming wall at the end of the corridor began to shimmer with the same sparking light that had surrounded her in the garden and a doorway appeared, wrought from the same stone as the slabs of the house itself, curving elegantly to form a pointed Gothic arch and frame a door of solid wood, thick and heavy and older than anything that surrounded it.

The door swung open as Emma drew near and she breezed through it without a thought. Killian, sensing the darker energy emanating from the other side, hesitated as he had at the garden gate. Emma turned, her smile understanding.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “It’s not dangerous, just old. Old things are sometimes… indifferent to younger ones. But it won’t hurt you. Nothing will hurt you here.”

Hesitantly he came through the doorway, moving slowly to allow the magic there to get a sense of him. It was less welcoming than the garden had been, but not hostile. As Emma said, it was simply indifferent. This magic had seen too many mortal creatures come and go in its time to care overly much about yet another one.

Emma led him into a large stone room with no windows, the tall, thick candles lining the walls its only source of light. These she set burning with a wave of her hand and the illumination they produced flooded the room with a golden glow despite their modest number. Stone stairs curved up the walls on either side of the room, leading to the towers that flanked the house, their twin helixes twisting up and disappearing into a darkness too dense even for the candles to penetrate. A heavy and cluttered wooden table spanned the length of the far wall, and this Emma approached, producing a thick, soft blanket of deep midnight blue scattered with stars from a woven wicker basket beneath it.

She spread the blanket carefully over the centre of the otherwise bare stone floor, placing at each of its corners a small silver bowl filled with sea salt and thyme and a few dried violet leaves, murmuring a short incantation over them as she did. “Sit here,” she instructed Killian, indicating the centre of the blanket. “I’ll need a few minutes to get my things together.”

Obediently, he sat and watched her in fascination as she rifled through the jumbled collection of bottles, jars, and bags on the table, frowning and muttering to herself as she did.

“…comfrey and rosemary and a bit of peppermint, sage to infuse and to burn…” she intoned as she gathered the named ingredients together. When all were assembled she snapped her fingers to light a fire beneath her copper kettle, then carefully weighed out the herbs on her silver scales while the water inside it came to a boil. She blended the herbs in a large mortar, crushing and grinding them with the pestle to blend them well and draw out their essence before tipping them carefully into a painted ceramic pot and pouring the boiling water over them. Stirring them gently with her magic, with her fingertips she traced arcane symbols through the steam as it rose from the pot into the cool, still air.

When she judged the herbs sufficiently infused she strained their liquid through a clean cheesecloth into a wide copper bowl. As it cooled to a comfortable temperature, she removed a lump of pure silver from a leather bag, holding it up to observe its gleam in the candlelight. The lump was large but to complete the healing properly would require all of it, and it was also precious. Glancing behind her she saw Killian sitting patiently, watching her, his eyes wide and curious but not afraid. Trusting.

He was worth it. She felt sure of that, and though she had no idea why she did not vacillate. Emma had long since learned to trust her instincts. 

She took a bundle of dried sage and held it up to a candle flame until it caught —some fires needed to be started in the mundane way— then blew the flame out with a quick puff of breath and waved the smouldering herbs around the blanket and over the copper bowl before dropping them into the potion. Carefully she lifted the bowl and carried it to the blanket, kneeling down upon it and placing the bowl in front of Killian. Closing her eyes she muttered a brief incantation before taking his damaged leg and bathing it in the warm liquid, her fingers gentle but thorough, making sure to clean away all the dirt and debris from the gnarled scar tissue. He growled softly, deep in his throat, and she shot him a smile, knowing it was a growl of pleasure.

“Feels good, huh?” she said. “Soothing.”

“Aye.” His bark was as low as his growl.

_{Good.}_

When his leg was clean she dried it with a linen cloth and set it in her lap, then took out the lump of silver, placing it at the end of his leg and cupping both loosely in the palms of her hands. Closing her eyes once more she focused her powers and drew forth the metal’s own magic, its primal properties of health and healing, her hands beginning to spark and glow with light as she kneaded the silver, stretching and weaving it back into itself, moulding the lump into the shape of a dog’s paw and then knitting it into the damaged flesh of the leg. Killian watched with wide eyes, whimpering slightly as the metal sank into his skin and fused to his bones. The light from Emma’s hands burst into a sudden blinding brightness, flickered out, and the silver paw was part of him.

Emma slumped back on her heels, exhausted. “Whew,” she said. “Done.” She patted the metal paw. “Give it a try.”

Killian sniffed the paw, licked at the seam where it joined his leg, then tentatively placed it on the floor and leaned his weight on it. He took a few careful steps followed by bolder ones, then turned to Emma with an incredulous expression. She laughed, happy he was happy. “Go on, stretch yourself,” she encouraged.

“Aye!” he barked, frolicking joyfully around the room, spinning in circles and leaping through the air. He ran to Emma and jumped on her, putting his paws on her shoulders and licking her face until she pushed him away, grinning through a jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m glad you like it,” she told him as she rose unsteadily from the floor. “I gotta get to bed. Um…” she swayed on her feet and Killian was there immediately at her side, pressing firmly against her leg and letting her brace herself with her hand on his neck as she stumbled from the stone room and out the doorway.

It disappeared behind her, the magic within whispering far more warmly than before, no longer so indifferent to Killian as it had been.

Emma sank her fingers into his thick fur, clinging to him as she made her way up the stairs to her bedroom. Her head felt heavy and woozy, her fingers and toes numb. Moving clumsily she kicked off her shorts and unhooked her bra, pulling it from beneath her tank top with jerky movements and dropping it to the floor before collapsing into bed, sinking deep into the pillows. Dimly she was aware of Killian moving around the room, his fur soft against her skin as he pulled the blankets up over her, the warm weight of him curling up at her back, his chin resting on her hip. With the last of her energy she reached up to stroke his head then fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~~🌺~~

Some hours later Killian was awoken from his doze when the magic from Emma’s garden called to him. He lifted his head from where it still lay on her hip and gave a low growl, staring through the bedroom window into the pitch blackness of the night.

Something was out beyond the garden wall, moving around its perimeter, methodically testing the magical boundary in search of weaknesses. Killian could sense it there, could feel its cold determination and intent even without the garden’s warning.

_Threat,_ whispered the garden magic in his mind. _Danger. Stay with her._

Killian flexed his new silver paw, feeling the power that still thrummed within it, feeling the absence of pain in his left limb for the first time in many a year. He looked at the golden haired woman still sound asleep, drained to exhaustion by the act of healing him, of selflessly giving him this invaluable gift. He recalled her warm green eyes and kind smile, the strength and gentleness in her touch.

He lay back down, pressing tighter against her, curling his neck around her hip and placing his silver paw gently over her waist. He closed his eyes again and answered the garden’s plea.

_{Always.}_

_Tis now the very witching time of night,_

_When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out_

_Contagion to this world._

—Hamlet, Act III Scene 2  
  
---


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we see Emma’s shop, a slice of Storybrooke life, some bonding moments and a hint of the danger to come. 
> 
> HUGE THANK YOU to all of you for the enthusiastic response to this story! I’m so happy you liked dog!Killian, he is dear to my heart and will be epic in later chapters.
> 
> Not this one, here he’s just adorable. But later.

Emma awoke to the bright summer sun shining through her bedroom window and to warmth that did not come from it; to the comforting heat of a body pressed against her and snoring gently at her back, the softness of silky fur between her fingers. 

_Typical,_ she thought. _The first time in a decade I don’t wake up alone and the man in my bed is a dog_. 

She yawned and stretched, vaguely surprised at how thoroughly rested she felt, and without the hangover she often had after using so much magic all at once. Killian leapt to his feet the moment she began to stir and licked her chin, tail wagging eagerly. 

“Good morning,” she said. “How’s your paw?” 

He barked and held it up for her to see.

_{Good.}_

“It looks good,” she agreed, examining it closely. “The silver’s woven with the flesh better than I expected, you might actually have some movement in it.” 

“Aye!” he barked, flexing the paw to show her. 

She smiled in pure delight. “That’s great! It won’t be quite the same as a real paw, but you’ll be able to walk a lot better. Oh, I’m so pleased for you.” She rubbed his head enthusiastically and scratched behind his ears, laughing as his back leg began to thump against the mattress. “Just don’t get it stuck in any more gopher holes, okay?”

“Aye!” 

“Good.” She gave his ears a final scratch then surprised herself by dropping a light kiss on his head. He looked at her, blue eyes wide in awe, and she actually blushed. “You want some breakfast?” she asked him, to cover her confusion.

“Aye! Aye!” 

“Well you ate all my hamburgers, but I might be prepared to share some pancakes with you if you promise to be a good boy.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her. 

_Can dogs raise eyebr_ — _you know what, no_ , she thought. She wasn’t going to keep asking that question. _This_ dog raised eyebrows and winked and pouted, and probably all manner of other things, and she was just going to roll with it. There were greater mysteries even in the mundane realm than one slightly odd dog. 

She smirked in response. “So what do you say? Pancakes?”

“Aye! Aye! Aye!” He spun in a circle as he barked, making the bed shake and Emma laugh. 

“Okay, that’s definitely a yes. Come on, then.” 

He leapt off the bed and trotted to the door, smooth and steady on his new paw, waiting until she’d pulled on a short bathrobe before bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. The room was bright and cheerful in the morning light, the sunshine that streamed through the wide windows matching the pale yellow of the walls and brightening the blue-grey of the kitchen cabinets and the worn flagstone floor. Emma opened one of these cabinets and withdrew a large cast iron griddle, placing it on the gas hob and lightning the flame beneath it with a spark of her magic. 

Her magic felt particularly sparky this morning, she thought, and stronger than it ever had.

“You know, I feel really refreshed,” she remarked, taking the pancake mix from the cupboard and measuring it into a large glass bowl with a handle and spout, putting in more than twice the amount of mix she would normally use for herself. She hoped it would be enough, the box was nearly empty. “I slept amazingly well. I guess maybe it’s because I used so much magic, but normally after a spell like that I nap for a couple of hours, not sleep through the whole night.” 

Killian moved to a spot beneath the kitchen table and sat, tail wagging and blue eyes attentive. She smiled at him. “That’s probably also why I’m awake so early. I’m that guy who hits ‘snooze’ three times then has to run to work, usually. Good thing I’m self-employed.” 

“Aye!” She looked down to see him smirking at her. Yes damn it, _smirking_. This dog could smirk. 

“Okay, smartass,” she chuckled, stirring the batter. “It’s a really gorgeous morning, too, I’m glad I’m awake for it. It’ll probably be hot as fuck later but right now the temperature’s perfect. And not too humid. I hate humid, it makes my fingers swell.”

She tested the heat of the griddle then poured the batter onto it, into perfect circles identical in size, because messy pancakes were something that happened to non-witches. 

“Days like this, I kinda hate having to stay indoors,” she continued as she took up her metal spatula, tapping it against her cheek as she watched the pancakes cook. “That’s the drawback to being self-employed, because I could close the shop if I wanted, there’s no one to stop me. It’s tempting sometimes. But then I remember how I need to do things like eat and pay for Netflix and that keeps me motivated. And also, I guess, myself,” she said after a short pause, flipping the pancakes with a deft precision born of practice and magic. “ _I_ keep me motivated, I mean. I _like_ keeping my shop. I like helping people, using my power and my heritage for something useful and good.” She gave a small, embarrassed laugh and shrugged a single shoulder. “It feels good to be needed.” 

Now Emma, in common with many independent-minded people who live alone, had long since learned to be comfortable in her own company. She could, and often did, go hours or even days without talking. Silence did not trouble her; in fact it often calmed her when she found the endless chatter and noise of the modern world a bit too trying. She was a woman who made friends cautiously, revealed herself only slowly, only when she could be sure the recipient of her confidences was one she could trust. 

She also deeply disliked having anyone in her house. 

So when you observe her behaviour with this peculiar blue-eyed dog, how she welcomes him into her home and feeds him, speaks openly about her deepest thoughts and feelings as though she has known him for years and not less than a day, you must understand _fully_ what that means. 

Healing magic forms a bond. But this is something more. 

Of course even the most closed off of women could easily find herself beguiled by the sweet attention of a handsome dog, and many did. The explanation could be as simple as that. 

It absolutely could be.

But although Emma remained oblivious of any peculiarity in her demeanour with Killian, when she set a plate stacked high with pancakes on the floor in front of him and he licked her hand and grinned at her, the expression in those bright blue eyes left no doubt in any part of her mind that she could trust him with far more than a few secrets. 

He began to eat and she shook her head with a small laugh then sat down at the table to join him. They ate in companionable silence, and Emma reflected absently that it was nice to have someone to talk to and all the nicer to have someone to be silent with. She’d not had either in her life for some time. 

Emma swiped the dregs of syrup on her plate with her last bite of her pancakes just as Killian licked up the final few crumbs of his, and once she had cleared away both plates he ran to the door and gave her a Look. 

“I got you,” she chuckled, opening it for him. “You go take care of business, I’m gonna shower and get ready for work.” 

“Aye!” he barked, and raced into the garden. 

When she came back downstairs forty-five minutes later, washed and dressed and ready for the day, she looked out the window to see him frolicking through her flowers as the garden’s magic tossed green acorns through the air for him to chase. Emma pursed her lips and with a wave of her hand summoned all the books with any information on dogs and magic that she could find from her library. 

She was perfectly prepared to accept a dog who smirked at her and clearly understood her words —she was a witch, after all, and had seen stranger things— but a dog whom her garden magic greeted like a long-lost friend and indulged with an almost girlish affection, that was a dog who warranted a bit of investigation. 

She chose the two books that seemed the least arcane and slipped them into her bag before heading outside into sunshine already grown uncomfortably intense. 

“Killian, I’m off to work—” she began and immediately he ran to the gate, looking at her expectantly, tail quivering. He barked twice. 

_{Come with.}_

“Really?” 

“Aye!”

“I mean, okay, but it’s not very interesting. I sit in a shop all day and wait for people to come in and complain about things. You sure you wouldn’t rather stay here?” 

It did not occur to her that he might have other options beyond staying in her house and coming to her shop. 

He barked again. 

_{Come with!}_

“Well, all right, if you insist. We’d better get going now though, or we’ll be late.” 

She opened the gate and headed into the forest, missing the brief whisper of the garden’s magic as it rustled through Killian’s fur. 

_Keep her safe._

Killian nodded and raced through the gate. It swung shut behind him with a decisive click and he settled into a steady trot at Emma’s side as she made her way into the lowering gloom of the forest. 

~~🌺~~

Emma’s shop occupied the broad and bustling corner of downtown Storybrooke where Main Street intersected with Hornbeam, but announced its presence and purpose with little more than cheerful window displays and a small sign that swung from an ornate wrought-iron mounting on creaky hinges. Its external appearance had remained remarkably unchanged across the centuries, with wide windows of gently rippling glass framed in weathered wood on both sides of the corner, one for each of the streets, flooding the space within in natural light at all hours of the day. Inside, the shop was divided into two sections. On the left, from the perspective of an entering customer, was the apothecary: a heavy wooden cabinet roughly three feet tall and six wide with dozens of drawers of various sizes, hewn from the core of an oak by Emma’s five-times great grandfather when the shop first opened. Behind this behemoth rows of hand-carved shelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling, laden with tall jars containing powders and potions, balms and tinctures, which Emma would carefully measure into glass bottles stoppered with corks that her customers were expected to return or reuse. The Swan apothecary had been green since the seventeenth century. 

The right-hand side of the shop featured what she called the grocery, a scattering of ornately carved tables of varying heights and widths backed by another wall of shelves, all displaying Emma’s non-medicinal wares: becharmed and decorated candles, floral soaps and bath salts, specially blended teas and local honey, even spice and herb blends for cooking. These her customers could collect in wicker baskets provided for the purpose and carry away, should they neglect to bring their own bags, wrapped in brown paper and tied with jute string. 

In a town only lightly touched by the passage of time, one that even in the thick of the 21st century maintained an air both ancient and arcane, the small shop bore witness to the enduring power of true magic. Dedicated in 1663, it had stood as a pebble against the flood of the earliest witch hunts that flowed from Puritan England into the New World and swept away none but innocents. Storybrooke’s escape from that madness and from the frenzy that gripped Salem some three decades later owed entirely to it being the one town in New England to boast an _actual_ witch, and to residents who had known even then how fortunate they were for it. 

The witchfinders had never even heard of the place. No allegations for them to investigate were ever made. And thus Storybrooke had sat precariously at the spot where the veil between realms was thinnest, guarding the witches that guarded the town, for well over three centuries.

~~🌺~~

That bright and blazing August morning passed through the little shop in much the manner Emma had predicted. She made Killian comfortable in a corner on an improvised bed made of hessian bags and with a bowl of water in easy reach, then settled down behind the apothecary counter to read up on magical dogs. Time ticked peacefully away, the quiet of the little shop broken only by the sound of pages turning and soft canine snores, and interrupted by customers only three times. 

First to arrive was Granny, looking to restock her headache cure and unburden herself of some opinions. 

“Leroy and Doc got into a shouting match at the diner this morning,” she grumbled as Emma weighed out the chalky white powder on her brass scales and tipped it into Granny’s clean glass jar. “Something about the way Doc parks the Miata. You should’ve heard the ruckus. I swear, that pair of idiots and their brothers would drive a weaker woman to drink.”

“Mmmm,” said Emma.

Not half an hour later the shop door was flung open to admit Leroy, scowling and fuming and seeking a curse to put on his brother’s car. 

“Leroy, _how_ many times do I have to tell you I don’t sell curses, or hexes or jinxes or evil eyes,” huffed Emma in exasperation.

“Maybe not for people, sister, but this is for a _car!_ ” 

“Oh, right, well that makes all the difference, just let me get my huge stash of car curses—” 

“Really?”

“No, obviously not really! For Pete’s sake, just tell Doc to park the Miata someplace else!” 

Leroy stomped away and was succeeded mere moments later by Doc himself, glancing anxiously and frequently out the window at his pristinely kept red car, asking about a protection spell. 

“I can’t give you a protection spell for your car,” said Emma, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Because it’s a _car_. Why don’t you just park it somewhere safe?”

“Nowhere is safe from Leroy!” 

“I’m sorry, Doc, but that is really not my problem.”

Killian observed these exchanges with evident amusement, wagged his tail when Granny bent down to scratch his ears, and barked loudly when Leroy stalked past the Main Street window carrying a baseball bat. 

_{Watch out! Watch out!}_

Emma knew Doc couldn’t hear Killian’s voice the way she could but he understood the bark all the same, racing from the shop with a shout of terror as Emma and Killian shared an eye roll. 

All this left ample time for Emma’s research, and she was frustrated to discover that her books had very little useful information to impart on the subject of dogs and magic. There was a fair amount about dogs and _luck_ , and how on some occasions they could be portents or omens, and of course many stories about their loyalty and devotion to their humans. Then there were the dogs or dog-adjacent creatures of various underworlds —Anubis, for one, and Cerberus— and there was the Grim, described as a large black dog with eyes like hot coals. 

Emma glanced at Killian, lounging like a Roman emperor on his makeshift bed. He was a big black dog but his eyes were the furthest imaginable thing from hot coals, and she doubted very much that he was a portent of death. No dog whose tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth when he got excited was going to be bearing any souls off to the netherworld. 

He felt her eyes on him and looked up inquisitively. 

“Let’s get some lunch,” she said, and he jumped up eagerly. “I usually just get a sandwich from Granny’s, and I realise now, _after_ I fed you pancakes, that I have no idea what dogs should and shouldn’t eat. I mean, can you have a sandwich?”

“Aye!” 

“You’d say that no matter what I offered, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye!” 

“Maybe Granny will know,” said Emma, closing the shop door behind them and locking it with a flick of her wrist. 

~~🌺~~

“I reckon a sandwich wouldn’t hurt him, though he really should have meat,” said Granny in response to her inquiry. “Got some nice roast beef in the back if you think he’d like it—” 

“Aye!”

Granny’s eyebrows rose in an expression of surprise so out of character that Emma’s own rose in response. “Never heard a bark like that before. Where’d you say he came from?”

“I didn’t,” replied Emma, feeling a tingle in her magic that suggested perhaps the tale of her and Killian’s meeting wasn’t one that should become common knowledge just yet. “So you think I should get him some meat?” 

“You could just get a few cans of dog food…” began Granny, trailing off when Killian gave a growl that could only be described as _menacing_. “Or not.” She frowned at Killian, who wagged his tail, though a warning remained in his eyes. “Hmmm. I’ll just go get that roast beef now.” 

Killian gave her a sharp look and three barks to match it. 

_{You do that.}_

“Remember how you promised to be a good boy if I gave you pancakes?” hissed Emma under her breath as Granny disappeared into the kitchen. 

He licked her hand and his tail wagged faster.

“Oh, and I suppose you think you’re always a good boy,” she said, rubbing behind his ear. 

“Aye!” His tongue lolled and he was her sweet puppy again. 

_Your ‘sweet puppy??’ You are losing your mind, woman._

Maybe she was a dog person after all, Emma reflected, as Killian’s back paw began to thump rhythmically on the floor in response to the ear scritches. 

Granny returned with Emma’s grilled cheese and a plate piled high with roast beef. She set it down in front of Killian somewhat warily, but he gave her the happy-big-blue-eyes and a brief lick of gratitude, and wagged his tail so enthusiastically that the old woman softened and gave his head a pat before going back behind the counter. Emma watched the exchange with mild exasperation. 

“You think you’re awfully charming, don’t you?” she asked him, as soon as Granny was out of earshot. He paused in his eating to grin at her, a cheeky, teasing grin that plainly said _of course_ he thought he was charming, and she’d seen the evidence of it herself. 

Emma rolled her eyes, but a gentle warmth settled into her chest and refused to be budged even by her most stalwart cynicism. 

~~🌺~~

That afternoon there were thankfully no further disturbances. Doc’s Miata disappeared from the street but the absence of any irate dwarves bursting into her shop and demanding vengeance potions reassured Emma that he had simply moved it and not found it smashed to bits with a baseball bat or driven off a cliff or something. 

Around half past three she went into the small office and kitchen area at the back of the shop to make a cup of tea and refresh the water in Killian’s bowl. The tea she selected was a blend she’d devised herself: silver needle white tea leaves blended with peppermint to sharpen the mind and chamomile to soothe the nerves, hyssop for the gut and a touch of lavender for the blood. The resulting brew was fragrant and comforting, and Emma, who did not have the gift of sight but rather the much more practical ability to recognise patterns in the universe, made a large pot of it and took out two cups. 

When she returned to the shop she found Killian on his back, writhing in bliss as a petite woman with a dark pixie cut rubbed his belly. 

“Who’s a good doggy,” she cooed, running her fingers through his fur. “Oh you are! Yes you are!” 

Killian stretched his legs clear to the toes, arching his back as she rubbed her hands over his entire midsection. 

“Oh, you’re so handsome, aren’t you,” gushed the woman. “Just the handsomest doggy.” 

Emma laid the tea tray on the counter with a clattering bang. “Don’t encourage him,” she said a bit crossly. “He’s got a healthy enough ego as it is.” 

The woman looked up. “Where’d he come from?” she asked. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a dog person.” 

“Me neither,” said Emma, pouring the tea. “I sort of found him.” 

“Sort of?” The woman gave Killian a final pat and he rolled back upright, tongue lolling and blue eyes bright. 

“It’s a long story, Mary Margaret. For another time.” Emma handed her friend a cup and the women sipped their tea in unison. 

“Oh, this one’s perfect,” sighed Mary Margaret, closing her eyes and taking a deeper sip. “You always manage to choose the tea I need most. I’ve had a bitch of a day.” 

“I thought school didn’t start until next week?” 

“It doesn’t. I’m all set up and ready to go when it does and was actually feeling really positive about the new year. And then last night my stepsister showed up.” 

“Stepsister?”

“Yeah. Regina. You remember, Cora’s daughter from her first marriage.” 

Killian’s ears perked up and his eyes narrowed. 

“Oh that’s right,” said Emma, recalling Mary Margaret’s wedding. “The _evil_ stepsister.” 

“The one who put gum in my hair and pulled the heads off my dolls when we were kids and then tried to seduce my fiancé the night before our wedding? Yep, that’s her.” 

“So what’s she doing here?”

“I don’t know,” said Mary Margaret, rubbing her temples. “She showed up just before midnight with leaves in her hair and wouldn’t tell me where they came from or why she was there or anything. She just demanded to use the guest room, went upstairs, and slammed the door. Then this morning she commandeered my laptop and she’s been on it all day. I wish I knew what was going on. David’s about ready to kick her out.” 

“Why doesn’t he?”

“You’ll think it’s stupid.” Mary Margaret muttered into her teacup. 

“I won’t.” 

Mary Margaret shot her a skeptical look over the cup’s rim.

“Okay,” conceded Emma, “Maybe I will but you should tell me anyway.” 

Mary Margaret sighed. “It’s just— as awful as Regina was to me growing up I’ve always had the sense that deep down inside she might be okay. Like she could actually be a good person if Cora would just leave her alone. I mean, anyone would be nasty with that witch for a mother.” 

“Hey!”

Mary Margaret’s eyes went wide as she remembered whom she was speaking to. “Sorry! Sorry. I didn’t mean— you know what I meant.” 

Emma was frowning. “Is Cora a practitioner?”

“Um,” Mary Margaret frowned as well. “I don’t think so, why?”

“It’s just you don’t normally use the word ‘witch’ in a derogatory way, at least not when I’m around.” 

“I said sorry.” 

“I know, but I was just wondering if maybe there was something subconscious that made you say it.” 

Mary Margaret thought hard for a minute. “Well I can’t say for sure. I never noticed her doing any of the witch stuff you do, but then I stayed out of her way as much as possible. She always terrified me, and I never could understand why my dad— I mean, she was just so _awful_.” 

Killian gave a small growl that sounded like agreement and Emma pointed her frown in his direction. He wagged his tail, doing his best to look innocent, but she could see worry behind his eyes. And fear. 

“Killian, are you—” she began, breaking off abruptly as the shop door opened and she turned to see who was there.

Two women stood in the doorway, both immaculately dressed even on this sweltering day and wearing matching haughty looks. One, the younger of the two, with thick dark hair framing her face and wine-red lipstick Emma couldn’t help but envy, she recognised as Mary Margaret’s stepsister Regina. 

She turned to look at the older woman, whose lighter brown hair was twisted into an elegant updo and whose mouth was twisted to match it. 

_Cora, I presume,_ thought Emma. Her magic was tingling almost painfully. This woman was definitely a practitioner, and an accomplished one. 

The four women stood staring at each other, and none of them noticed Killian slink silently out of sight behind the apothecary counter. 

The charged silence had dragged out long past the point of discomfort by the time Regina spoke. “I just came to say thank you,” she said stiffly, addressing Mary Margaret. “For putting me up last night.” 

Had she declared her intention of dancing naked down Main Street singing _The Star Spangled Banner_ , Mary Margaret could not have been more astonished. 

“Uh… you’re welcome?” she said. 

“Good.” Regina nodded, then looked at the older woman. “Shall we go, Mother?”

“One moment.” Cora’s voice was as haughty as her face, so cold that its chill cut through the muggy heat of the day and travelled on icy feet up Emma’s spine. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Mary Margaret?”

Mary Margaret’s face contorted as she tried to process what was happening. “This is… Emma,” she said slowly. “She owns the shop.” 

“A witch, then,” purred Cora. 

“ _The_ witch, in this town anyway,” replied Emma, keeping her cool despite her unease and the frantic thrum of her magic. She had no intention of showing weakness, not when Cora was clearly there to get the measure of her. 

_But why? What’s she after?_

“I see.” Cora stared at her for a long moment then gave a small nod, turned on her heel, and stalked from the shop without another word. 

Regina looked at Emma and Mary Margaret with an expression that on a different face might have been apologetic. She made an awkward gesture with her hand, somewhere between a wave and a shrug. “Goodbye,” she said, then hurried after her mother. 

Mary Margaret and Emma exchanged glances. 

“That was weird, right?” said Mary Margaret. “I’m not just imagining that that was weird?”

“No it was definitely weird,” Emma confirmed. Weird and ominous. She flexed her fingers, still tingling from the anxiety in her magic, and looked around for Killian.

He poked his head around the side of the counter then slowly emerged from behind it, trotting over to Emma and pressing himself firmly against her. He looked up at her with wide, concerned eyes and gave a small whimper.

_{Dangerous.}_

“Yeah.” She stroked his ears in a way she hoped was reassuring, though the truth was his solid strength and soft fur against her leg was reassuring _her._

“Yeah what?” asked Mary Margaret. Emma shook herself and attempted a smile. “Nothing, just thinking out loud,” she replied. “Do you want another cup of tea?”

~~🌺~~

Mary Margaret didn’t stay long after she finished her tea, giving Killian a generous ear scratch as she left and promising to keep Emma updated on any further contact she might have with Regina or Cora. 

“I mean, it’s probably nothing,” she said with a shrug. “A weird nothing, sure, but still nothing.” 

Emma was far less certain, but she didn’t want to burden Mary Margaret with her suspicions or the knowledge that her stepmother was an actual as well as a metaphorical witch. “Yeah, probably,” she agreed. “But I’ve got a tickle in my magic and I’d prefer to be careful.” 

“Okay. I’ll let you know.” Mary Margaret hugged her goodbye and left. 

After she had gone several more people stopped by on their way home from work to pick up various teas and balms and candles, but by six o’clock the streets were mostly silent and so she closed up the shop and headed home, stopping briefly at the market to get Killian some food. 

“No dog food,” she assured him as she emerged from the building to find him waiting patiently and with a slight air of suspicion. “Some ground beef and some chicken and some more pancake mix. Since you liked the pancakes so much.” 

“Aye!” His tongue lolled and his eyes brightened with excitement, all traces of his earlier fear swept away. 

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Well, don’t get used to it, most mornings I don’t feel like cooking.” 

“Aye!” 

“Just so we’re on the same page. C’mon, let’s go home.” 

She moved to sling the cotton bag she used to haul her groceries over her shoulder, but Killian caught a corner of it gently in his teeth. 

“Whoa, at least wait until we get home!” teased Emma.

He gave her a wounded look and barked twice. 

_{I’ll help.}_

“You want to carry the bag?” she asked dubiously. 

“Aye!” 

“Are you sure?”

“Aye!” 

“Well, okay.” She held out the bag and he bent his head so she could loop the long handles around his neck, ensuring that they weren’t too tight against his throat and resting the bag on his shoulder so it wouldn’t impede his legs. He let her fuss until she was satisfied then licked her hand, tail wagging energetically. She chuckled. “Well aren’t you the gentleman?”

He raised an eyebrow again —seriously, _how_ did he do that— and gave three quick barks. 

_{Always a gentleman.}_

“You know, I believe you are,” said Emma. 

They walked side-by-side through the forest with Emma’s hand resting on Killian’s neck, her fingers gently sifting through his fur. Humidity hung heavily in the air; even with the cooler temperatures within the forest’s shade moisture clung to them, beading in Killian’s fur and trickling down Emma’s back and leaving both with the impression that they might as well be swimming home. 

“This weather is so gross,” said Emma, fanning her shirt in an attempt to dry her skin. “I can’t wait for fall.”

“Aye!” 

“It’s always been my favourite season,” she continued, smiling at the thought of cooler weather, and at the rapt attention she sensed from the dog at her side. “I love when the air gets crisp and the leaves change, and I can start wearing sweaters. October’s the best month, and not just because it’s my birthday. It’s the month when the world is at its most magical, just earthly magic at first with the fiery colours in the leaves and the slant of the sunlight, and the equinox, but then on the 31st is Samhain, when the veil between magical and mundane is so thin you can almost reach through it. Magic just comes alive on Samhain and it’s the most incredible rush.” 

She looked down at him and he grinned at her, his eyes bright with interest. She smiled, fingers tightening on his fur. “We’ll have a bonfire in the garden on Samhain night, and then at midnight the covenant with the forest is renewed.” Lost in her thoughts, she missed Killian’s sudden frown. “Honestly, it’s the absolute best time of the year.”

“Aye!” he agreed, though something about _the covenant with the forest_ troubled him. 

As they drew closer to Emma’s house Killian felt his hackles rise. He sniffed the air, his sensitive nose picking up a multitude of scents that his brain was able to distinguish but not put a name to. Brown earthy scents and fresh green ones, soft flowers and gamy animals, all held captive and intensified in the damp stasis of the air. And pervading all of this, surrounding it and sustaining it and within it, he could smell _magic_. Emma’s own magic, of course, and that belonging to the forest plants and creatures, but also the dark magic of the forest itself and of the malefice beyond. Beyond that barrier Emma had spoken of lay immense power; power that, should she choose to tap and harness it, could conquer the world. 

But it wasn’t the scent of magic that raised Killian’s hackles or the seething menace of the forest, it was one faint and solitary scent that threaded through all the others, one that he could easily identify. One he’d caught that very afternoon in Emma’s shop, sending him flashing back to the week before, to the shadowy cabin where his life had changed forever. One he’d smelled for the first time on the worst day of that life. 

It was the scent of perfume. 

He forced himself to keep trotting at a steady pace and not tug Emma along ever faster until they reached the safety of her garden. Nothing, not the forest or the barrier or even what lay beyond it terrified Killian as much as that perfume. 

What was she doing here? Could she get in the house? 

The moment they stepped through the garden gate he shrugged off Emma’s shopping bag and raced around, barking. Emma laughed, thinking he was happy to be home, but the garden magic sensed his fear. 

_She’s safe_ , it whispered to him. _Safe with you._

_{For now.}_

_Until Samhain. Prepare._

“Killian,” called Emma from the kitchen door. “You hungry?”

_Go,_ whispered the garden magic. 

Killian ran inside barking eagerly, spinning in circles to make her laugh. Already he lived for that laugh. The door swung closed behind them with a soft click and the smell of the perfume was gone. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witching Wednesday is here and I am SO EXCITED to share this chapter!!
> 
> But first, THANK YOU to everyone reading and especially those of you who’ve shared stories of your dogs and how dog!Killian reminds you of them. I’m beyond thrilled to hear that! Please give me ALL THE DOG STORIES. 
> 
> In this chapter we have Samhain traditions and Emma and Killian’s bond, Cora’s plan coming to fruition, a WITCH FIGHT, some pretty epic magic, and Killian being a very good dog indeed. 
> 
> (there is also some graphic-ish violence, so be prepared...)

Those sweltering days that in the midst of summer seem endless eventually drifted, as they always do, into autumn, shortening and cooling to a delicious crispness until Emma with a happy sigh unpacked her sweaters from their cedar chest and aired them in the garden. As the weeks tipped into months she and Killian fell into a comfortable routine of days spent in the shop and evenings in the garden or before the wide stone fireplace in the living room, curled up on the sofa with his head in her lap as she read a book or watched a movie, absently stroking his silky ears. He slept beside her each night, his head resting on her hip and his paw draped over her waist, a pose that she found oddly protective, but though she rolled her eyes and told him she was perfectly safe in her own bedroom even if he slept at the foot of the bed, she secretly loved the warmth of him and his soft breathing at her back and the gentle way he licked her chin to wake her up whenever she was tempted to oversleep. 

“All right, all right, I’m awake,” she groused one late October morning, wiping her chin and pushing Killian away. He sat back on his haunches and watched her with a bright, expectant smile. 

“Is this because I promised you pancakes today?”

“Aye!” 

“Crazy dog,” she said fondly, scratching his ears and dropping a kiss on the impossibly soft spot on his forehead just between his eyes. “All right, let’s go.” 

“Aye!” he barked, leaping off the bed and racing down the stairs as she grabbed a cardigan to throw over her flannel pajama pants and tank top, shivering in delight at the chill in the morning air. She loved October. 

Already Emma’s witchy-senses, as she called them, had sharpened in anticipation of Samhain and the Hunter’s Moon, set to coincide that year for the first time in more than three centuries. Magic shimmered in the air, carried on the brisk autumn breezes and rustling through the leaves that blazed brightly in shades of gold and burgundy, umber and terracotta, and a yellow like distilled sunshine. The sky that morning was blindingly blue, reminding Emma of Killian’s eyes, with soft wisps of white cloud and a vee of Canada geese soaring south on the crisp winds. Emma opened her door and breathed deeply, inhaling the air and the magic, until Killian’s whimpers grew too impatient to ignore. She turned to look at him, sitting under the table with an expression between a scowl and a pout. 

A scout. A powl?

Autumn made her whimsical, Emma reflected. 

That morning she had several loads of new merchandise for the shop: engraved Samhain candles and turnips carved with impish faces, magically preserved —Emma would have no truck with Halloween pumpkins— alongside dense loaves of dark-grain bread made from a recipe passed along the generations of her family, and jugs of apple cider to wash it down. After breakfast she loaded Killian with as many bags as he could carry ( _What am I, a pack mule?_ his wounded expression said) saying a quick spell to lighten the weight of them before hoisting at least as many of her own. 

She smirked at him and he shrugged.

 _{Sure you can manage all of that, love?}_ he barked. 

Whether it was that they had simply grown more attuned to each other or perhaps something deeper Emma wasn’t sure; she knew only that she heard Killian’s voice regularly now, speaking to her in clear, deep tones and full sentences. He had a British accent, she was amused to note, and an affinity for endearments. 

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own bags,” she retorted. 

_{Indeed. But it’s a long walk.}_

A long walk through a forest ready burst at the seams with magic, he _didn’t_ say, but she knew that was what he meant. Emma couldn’t recall a time when she had seen the forest magic so potent. The very air crackled with arcane energy, energy that could sharpen even our ordinary observer’s senses and attune them to the smallest shiver and twitch of motion through the trees. Energy that could, and did, awaken normally dormant creatures and pull them forth from their sanctuaries to be caught in the corner of that observer’s eye, or to slink along behind him with creeping footsteps only to vanish the moment he turned, leaving no trace behind save a whisper through the dry leaves and a lingering suggestion of menace. 

The effects of this heightened energy did not confine themselves to the forest. In Emma’s garden the apple trees yielded triple their normal amount of fruit and her chrysanthemums bloomed wider than her hand. She herself was buzzing and restless, full of an odd, untethered anticipation, an expectation of something she couldn’t put a name to even when in exasperation she resorted to the scrying mirror and tarot cards she normally scorned as parlour tricks. For the past few nights she had struggled to sleep, tossing and turning for hours in her bed before giving up and spending the time in her workshop instead, magic almost igniting in the air as she blended and brewed and murmured incantations over bubbling cauldrons and Killian lay curled in a corner, watching her with amusement tinged with concern. 

“Don’t worry,” she reassured him, despite her own lingering unease. “It’s just how magic is this time of year. Granted this is stronger than normal but it’ll calm down soon. In December I practically hibernate.”

_{Just don’t overdo it, love. You still need to sleep sometimes.}_

And Emma did sleep, eventually, once the importunate energy had been channeled and the dawn was breaking over the cliff edge, she would lean against Killian as he guided her up the stairs to fall into exhausted slumber and awaken mere hours later when his gentle licks reminded her that it was time to start another day. 

Never once did it occur to her examine the intimacy of her relationship with this dog, or to find anything peculiar in the fact that she often forgot he was one. To her he was simply Killian, her trusted companion, and she could no longer conceive of her life without him. 

She smiled at him now, as laden with their magically lightened bags they headed into the forest, side by side on the winding path in what had become their customary manner: Killian trotting slightly ahead and Emma a step behind, her hand resting on his neck, deep in his thick fur. The fur beneath her fingers stood up higher than usual, the muscles beneath it tense and vibrating when he growled deep in his throat at anything that troubled his canine senses. 

That morning, those things were many. 

“Hey,” said Emma soothingly, stroking her fingers down his neck. “It’s okay. I know it’s creepy but the covenant is still in place until Samhain, and there’s no reason it won’t be renewed. There’s nothing for us to fear in this forest.” 

Her voice was calm and certain but Killian could smell the perfume again, faint but unmistakable, and dread settled heavily in his chest. Whatever demons may lie on the other side of the forest barrier, he thought, they couldn’t be worse than the one already loose on this side. As Samhain approached he found himself staying closer to Emma’s side as they walked through the forest, curling tighter around her as they slept, his senses ever alert for any threat to her. 

_Protect her,_ the garden magic whispered each time they left the safety of its walls, and each time he gave the same response. 

_{Always.}_

There was nothing Killian wanted more, nothing he was more devoted to than Emma’s safety. In these past weeks with her he had come to understand his role in the events that would soon play out, had come to see how everything he had done in his life, every decision he had made and every path he had chosen had led him here, to this woman and this moment and this task. He knew what he would have to do and though it terrified him he faced it unflinchingly. Only Emma mattered, and he did not intend to fail her as he had failed already at far too many things, for far too many people.

And so he preceded her through the forest and he snarled at any danger. For the present it was all he could do. 

When they arrived at the shop Killian stood patiently as Emma unloaded the bags he carried then went to curl up in his bed, now an actual dog bed she had magicked for him out of the old hessian bags and some woollen packing material. Emma freshened his water and rubbed his ears and he snuggled down thinking wryly that this was really everything a dog could hope for in life. Resting his chin on his paws he watched Emma as she busied herself with setting up the Samhain wares, arranging them on the shelves and tables and humming brightly.

The shop was busy as it had been all month; October was always its busiest time even without the forest’s energy, which managed to seep into even the stoic New England souls that inhabited Storybrooke. Their eyes were brighter, their conversations snappier, and they found themselves stopping in to buy warded candles and tumbling stones to place in their windows without conscious thought. 

By the early afternoon Emma had sold all her bread and cider and most of her candles, and was absorbed in arranging the remaining turnips artfully alongside some bags of smoky quartz tumbling stones when the doors opened and Regina walked in. 

Emma’s eyes widened. “Um, hi,” she said. “Mary Margaret’s not here.” 

“I’m not here to see Mary Margaret.” 

“Oh.” Emma stuffed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and waited for Regina to say why she was there. When the other woman remained silent, she tried again. “Well… can I help you find something?”

Regina looked around the shop and an odd expression softened the harsh cast of her face. “You’re preparing for Samhain,” she said, and the wistful note in her voice struck a chord in Emma even as it failed to surprise her. She remembered the power she’d sensed when Regina had been here before, with her mother. At the time she’d attributed it all to Cora but now she realised Regina had some too. Not as much, but a significant amount. 

“Do you practice?” she asked. 

Regina nodded, reaching out a tentative finger to trace the carved face of one of the turnips. “All the women in my family do. But my mother— well, she doesn’t hold much with the household rituals. Calls it ‘kitchen magic.’”

“Well, it is!” exclaimed Emma, a bit affronted. 

Regina’s lip twitched. “She said it was beneath us and only allowed me to study the High Magic, but my grandmother made sure I knew Samhain traditions.” She picked up a candle and inhaled its scent. “I like them,” she declared, her tone defiant. “They’re… well, they’re—” 

“Soothing,” supplied Emma with a smile, filing away that bit of information about Cora and the High Magic. The tingle in her own magic felt it was significant. 

“Yes.” Regina smiled back, a faint, anodyne thing but still a smile. “They make me feel connected.” 

“Connection is important,” said Emma, surprised by the strength of the one she felt to this cold, haughty woman. As Mary Margaret had, she sensed something in Regina that had been suppressed all her life but was still fighting to get out. “That candle,” she nodded to the one Regina still held in her hand, “is a good one for reinforcing it. Put it in your window with just a simple incantation, and it’ll call the ancestors home.” 

Regina’s wistful smile twisted into a wry smirk. “I’m not sure my ancestors are ones you’d want to call,” she murmured.

“Not even your grandmother?”

Pain flashed across Regina’s features and for the briefest moment she looked lost. She opened her mouth to reply when the door opened again to admit Mary Margaret and David. 

Regina instantly stiffened, all trace of softness draining from her face and posture. 

“Oh!” said Mary Margaret. “Regina! I, uh, didn’t know you were in town.” 

“Just passing through,” said Regina. “I’ll… I’ll be going now.” She set the candle awkwardly on the nearest surface and turned to leave. 

“Wait,” called Emma, picking it up again along with a bag of the smoky quartz and and offering both to Regina. “On the house.”

The other woman flushed and pushed them away. “Oh, I couldn’t—” 

“I insist. To get you back in touch with the old rituals.” Emma held them up again and this time Regina took them. Gratitude flashed in her eyes, gone in an instant but no less significant for being brief. 

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, and left. 

“What was that about?” asked Mary Margaret when the door had closed behind her stepsister. 

“Call it Samhain cheer,” said Emma, turning to grin at her friends. “Did you bring the log?” 

“It’s in the truck,” said David. “Are you sure we can’t—” 

“Yes, I’m sure you can’t carry it for me,” interrupted Emma with a roll of her eyes. “You ask that every year and every year I remind you that I have ways of making things easier to carry. And anyway, this year Killian’s going to carry it.” 

“Killian?” David regarded the dog with his habitual distrustful expression.

The dog in question looked up at the sound of his name and wagged his tail, letting his tongue loll from his mouth and giving David a look of pure innocence. David scowled and Killian wagged harder. He could tell the man sensed there was something unusual about him but couldn’t quite put his finger on _what_ , and Killian took perverse enjoyment from being as dog-like as possible in David’s presence. 

“Yep, he insisted,” said Emma cheerfully. David’s scowl deepened. 

“ _How_ did he insist?”

“He just did. It’s a witch thing.” Emma patted David’s arm reassuringly. “He lets me know when he wants to help.” She exchanged a grin with Mary Margaret, who knew far more about Killian’s communicative abilities than her husband did. 

“Huh.” David looked unconvinced, but Emma just smiled. 

“The log?” she prompted gently. 

“Yeah, I’ll go get it. Where do you want it to go?” 

“Just in the storeroom is fine. Thanks, David!” 

David headed out to the truck, muttering under his breath as he went, and Emma and Mary Margaret exchanged another amused look. 

“You want some tea?” asked Emma. “I’ve made a special Samhain blend, apple and hazelnut.” 

“Ooh, that sounds good. Yes, please,” said Mary Margaret. 

Emma went to brew the tea and Mary Margaret crouched down next to Killian, rubbing his ears just the way she knew he liked. “Sorry about David,” she said. “He’s very protective of Emma. They’re distant cousins and they grew up together, and he’s suspicious of any man who gets too close to her.” 

Killian raised an eyebrow, but Mary Margaret didn’t seem to notice she’d said anything odd. Her concern warmed Killian, and eased the knot in his chest. He licked her hand to tell her he understood about needing to protect Emma, and didn’t blame David for acting on the same impulse that had been driving him for months now. 

Mary Margaret smiled. 

Emma appeared with the tea and a platter of the crumbly spice cookies layered with jam that she called soul cakes, just as David returned with a large log slung over his shoulder. He headed for the back room while Emma put a plate of soul cakes down in front of Killian and Mary Margaret poured three cups of tea. Moments later David returned and the four of them settled down to their afternoon refreshment, sipping and munching in companionable silence. 

“So you’ve been really busy,” remarked Mary Margaret after they’d all sated the worst of their hunger and thirst. “I mean, you always are this time of year, but this year seems… more.” 

“I think it’s the conjunction with the Hunter’s Moon,” said Emma. “And you know it’s three hundred and fifty years since the first covenant, and landmark anniversaries always excite the magic. I’m just really energised.”

“Well don’t overdo it,” frowned David and Emma rolled her eyes. 

“You sound just like Killian,” she retorted. David choked on his tea. 

“I sound like your dog?” he sputtered. 

“Oh,” said Emma a bit sheepishly. “Um, yeah. Witch thing, remember?”

Killian barked. Emma flushed. David scowled. “What did he say?”

“Um, you don’t want to know.” 

Killian wagged his tail, tongue lolling. “No you’re right,” agreed David. “I don’t want to know.” 

~~🍂 ~~

On the thirty-first of October Emma woke well before sunrise and dressed in a long, flowing gown of unbleached linen. Her bare feet were all but silent on the wooden floors as she slipped downstairs to the kitchen to brew a pot of her apple and hazelnut tea. Sipping on a steaming cup of it, she walked through the house lighting the inscribed candles that stood in every window with a smouldering birch twig —some fires had to be started in the mundane way— and speaking a short incantation over each. 

When the first rays of sunshine began to break over the tall stone towers of the house Emma went into her garden, still barefoot, with the birch twig still smouldering. Her long gown trailed through the morning dew as she approached the stone fire circle at the garden’s northeast corner, where branches of apple wood and ash, hazel and hornbeam and cedar were stacked high in readiness. Emma knelt, and touched the birch twig to the tip of an apple branch. It caught instantly, its flame flaring high for a brief moment before settling into a slow burn that would ignite every piece of wood in the circle, bit by bit, until sunset when she would add the oak log David had given her and awaken a flame that would burn bright and steady throughout the Samhain night. 

Rising to her feet Emma tugged on the drawstring around the neck of her gown, loosening it and allowing the garment to fall from her body, leaving her naked in the golden dawn light. She raised her arms to the sky and closed her eyes, leaning her head back as the light bathed her pale skin and hair, imbuing her with a gentle glow that pulsed with magic. 

Killian watched her, fascinated, knowing he probably shouldn’t see her like this but unable to look away. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on, mesmerising in the power that radiated from her slender form. 

When the sun crested the towers and hung full in the sky, Emma lowered her arms with a happy sigh, pulled her gown back on and returned to the house. “Breakfast, Killian?” she asked cheerfully, oblivious to his awe. “I’m in the mood for some apple cinnamon muffins.”

~~🍂 ~~

The shop was absolutely heaving that day, perhaps not wholly surprising for an establishment run by a witch, on Halloween. Though Emma vehemently rejected Halloween as a watering-down and commodifying of her cultural heritage, she did consent to give goodies to trick-or-treaters —caramel apples she’d made herself— and to greet them at the door of her shop holding a besom broom. 

“Do you fly on that, Miss Emma?” asked a small girl with blonde ringlets dressed in a pale blue princess gown. 

“Only on Samhain, Alexandra,” Emma replied, handing the girl a caramel apple that was just the right size for her tiny fist. “And for the Hunter’s Moon, which is also tonight.” 

“What’s a hunty moon?” Alexandra’s eyes were wide as she licked the caramel. 

“It means the moon will be extra big and low in the sky and it will glow orange,” said Emma, widening her own eyes. “And if you look _very_ carefully you’ll be able to see me flying past it on my broomstick.” 

“Wow! Mommy did you hear that?” 

“I did, sweetie,” said a woman with the same platinum curls as her daughter. She gave Emma a slightly dirty look. “I hope you’ll be able to sleep after hearing a story like that.” 

“I always sleep on Sawn night cuz I know Miss Emma is protecting us,” declared Alexandra, and Emma grinned. 

“Don’t be like that, Ashley,” she muttered. “You know kids love my witch stories.” 

“And just what am I supposed to tell her when she watches the moon all night and doesn’t see you?” huffed Ashley. 

“Who says she won’t?” asked Emma sweetly. “Oh, look, Sean’s waving for you. Come back soon! Happy Samhain, Alexandra!” 

Alexandra waved her sticky apple as she and her mother left the shop, leaving it empty and blessedly quiet. Emma turned away from the door with a relieved sigh. She’d been run off her feet all day but now finally perhaps she could take a moment for a cup of tea— 

The shop door opened and she suppressed a different sort of sigh, turning to greet her customer. 

It was Regina, looking haughty as ever but with a hint of something harried and almost frantic behind her eye that caught Emma’s attention.

“Are you all right?” she asked. 

“I’m fine. I— I—” she grimaced and shook her head, then took a deep breath and tried again. “I just wanted to remind you of what I told you last week. About my mother. About how— how she only practices the High Magic. She likes the power of it. She—” Regina choked and doubled over, one hand flying to her throat, the other held out defensively when Emma moved forward to help. “Stay back!” she cried. “I’m fine.”

“But—” 

“I said I’m fine!”

Emma held up her own hands and took a step back. “All right,” she said soothingly. 

Regina straightened, swallowed gingerly, and glared at Emma. “Just remember that my mother likes power.” Her eyes beseeched Emma to understand. “She will do _anything_ for power.”

“I— see,” said Emma, not really seeing at all. 

“I only hope you do,” muttered Regina. “I have to get going before she realises—” she broke off as her gaze fell on Killian, sitting up in his bed in the corner and watching her with wary eyes. 

“Where did you get that dog?” Regina asked sharply. 

“I found him in the forest.” The tingle in Emma’s magic prompted her to tell the truth. “In August. He was hurt and I healed him, and he’s been with me ever since.” 

“Hurt how?”

“He had a broken leg. And— a missing paw.” 

“A missing paw,” whispered Regina. 

“Aye!” Killian stood and padded to Emma’s side. He held up his silver paw, flexing it for Regina to see. 

“She gave you a silver paw.”

“Aye!” 

Regina stared at Killian for a long moment, then she smiled. A real smile this time, wide and delighted and revealing just a few too many teeth. 

“Good,” she said, then looked hard at Emma. “Remember what I told you, Miss Swan. And look after your dog.” With a final satisfied glance at Killian she was gone. 

“What the hell was that about?” exclaimed Emma, looking down at Killian. 

He wished he could tell her, but his tongue was as tied as Regina’s. 

Instead he shrugged and grinned at her, wagging his tail eagerly. _{Look after your dog. That’s good advice.}_

Her frown dissolved into fond laughter. “I suppose you want a snack,” she said. 

“Aye!” 

“Well you’re in luck because so do I. Let’s take advantage of this quiet moment before more trick-or-treaters show up.” 

She went to make tea and when they finished their snack break more customers arrived, keeping Emma busy until closing time. But though they had no time to mention the matter again, neither she nor Killian forgot the odd incident, or Regina’s warning.

~~🍂 ~~

As the sun sank below the treetops on the night of Samhain, Emma, again dressed in her linen gown and bare feet, carried the seasoned oak log David had given her out to the fire circle and the faintly glowing pile of wood within it. Holding the log balanced on her open palms she spoke an incantation, one Killian recognised as an obeisance to Cerridwen, goddess of wisdom, transformation, and rebirth. As her words faded into the darkening night, she knelt and placed the log atop the pile where it caught instantly and burst into bright orange flame. Emma bowed her head in a silent moment of reflection and thanks to the goddess, then she looked up and grinned at Killian. 

“Let’s eat.” 

The bonfire burned high in the corner of the garden, flames leaping and dancing in the night, rising up to lose themselves in the matching orange glow of the Hunter’s Moon just visible above the forest treetops. Sparks swirled and wove through the air on waves of heat, landing but never catching on any of the plants and flowers left dry and vulnerable by the waning season. The garden magic protected them, and Emma’s magic controlled the fire. 

Emma brought out plates piled high with cobs of corn and assorted small squashes, which she roasted in the fire and seasoned with butter and rosemary salt. Dessert was hazelnuts roasted in her autumn flower honey, accompanied by toasted soda bread and apple cider. 

Killian sat contentedly in front of the fire, nibbling on corn and squash and listening to Emma reminisce about the Samhains of her childhood when her mother and grandmother were still alive, the ceremonies they had held together and how she had learned her craft from them. The wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of them, of her wish to pass their teachings on to her own daughter and her growing worry that this was a joy she would never know, squeezed his heart with a yearning ache. Resting his chin on her knee he looked up at her with adoring eyes, wishing with everything in him that he had more to offer her than canine devotion. 

She stroked his head. “I’m so glad you’re here, Killian,” she said softly. “It’s nice not to be alone.” 

He snuggled against her side and licked her chin, whining softly.

 _{I would never choose to leave you.}_

It was as much as he was able to give. 

As the moon rose and the bonfire waned, the forest beyond the garden wall began to stir. Whispers in languages too old for this world rustled though the leaves as curling tendrils of shadow wove out of the trees to the garden gate, pressing insistently against the wards. 

The garden magic ruffled Killian’s fur and scratched his ears affectionately. 

_It is time. Protect her._

The voice was gentle, and so, so sad. 

It knew. 

_{I will,}_ Killian whispered back, _{I vow it.}_

And when the witching hour struck and Emma rose from the ground he was at her side, pressing close to her as they walked together through the gate and into the forest. Emma’s fingers sifted through his fur, more for him than for herself he realised, reassuring him that she knew what she was doing. 

He was certain she did. But she did not know what was coming. 

Halfway along the forest path Emma turned, heading away from the familiar trail and into the deepest part of the wood. Scrub and bracken on the forest floor parted as she moved through it, her long gown trailing behind her and Killian trotting steadily at her side. Soon they arrived in a small clearing, a perfect circle of soft grass about twenty feet around, bordered by a ring of slender birches and with a squat, gnarled oak at its very centre, its twisted branches rising up and spreading out over the whole of the clearing and its trunk split nearly in two by an immense and horrifying knothole, jagged and gaping like a fresh wound. 

The knothole pulsed with a dark glow, clear and visible despite the way it absorbed the light around it, rather like what Killian had always envisioned black holes to be. The shadow tendrils slithered out of it, winding around Emma and Killian and securing them in a grip that was deceptively soft. Killian growled, low and deep in the back of his throat, and Emma’s fingers stroked him soothingly. 

She spoke, her voice clear and sure, ringing through the clearing and echoing into the unseen spaces of two realms. “I come at the turning of the year,” she said. “In accordance with the ancient covenant. As the world dies and is renewed so we renew the peace between us. We preserve the balance of the worlds and defend each side from ingress of the other. This is my will as it was the will of my ancestors. As it is yours.” 

The shimmering glow of her magic enveloped her, sending dancing golden sparks across her skin as he had seen it do in her garden on the day they met. Her light absorbed the tendrils of darkness that bound them and they began to retreat back through the knothole as Emma’s eyes closed and her lips moved in silent invocation. 

So bright was Emma’s light that Killian nearly failed to notice the five pairs of glowing sparks that did not come from her. They came instead from the forest, dark red and malevolent, appearing from nowhere at the edge of the clearing and surrounding it as the still of the night was rent with deep, vicious snarls and a howl that froze Killian’s blood. 

She was here. 

~~🍂 ~~

Deep in her spell, Emma was conscious of little but the power coursing through her —her own power, seasoned with a hint of the darkness from the other side, dangerous and intoxicating. With the ancient words nearly spoken she grasped the edges of the open barrier and prepared to close it when she was startled by a sudden sharp pull on the darkness, a call to it from another witch, yanking the retreating tendrils of shadow forcefully back through the barrier and tearing it wide. 

Gasping, she opened her eyes as awareness of her surroundings crashed into her, of the snarling and howling from outside the clearing and of Killian, hackles raised, circling her like he was trying to guard every side of her at once. 

She blinked to clear the fog of magic from her mind and recover some composure, and when she looked again five wolves had appeared in the clearing, huge and heavy with fur as black as the night they came from, jaws slavering, eyes glowing red. They encircled her, advancing with bloodcurdling intent and Cora at their heels. 

_Of course,_ thought Emma, as the pieces fell into place in her mind. _That’s what Regina was trying to tell me._

Cora scorned the household rituals that lay at the heart of white witchcraft. But the High Magic that she preferred required power, and in this world power was not unlimited. To obtain more of it, Regina had said, Cora would do anything. 

_Anything._ Even tear asunder an ancient barrier and drag horror such as she could not possibly comprehend into a place that had no hope of containing it. A place where it could flow unhindered and raze everything in its path. A place where it would never be controlled.

And Cora believed _she_ could control it, and turn it to her will. 

The woman’s hubris and dangerous ignorance were almost comical in their magnitude, but Emma was not laughing. The fabric of the worlds had never been so thin, the convergence of Samhain and the Hunter’s Moon had left it threadbare and terrifyingly delicate. It could be torn by a breath, and Emma felt certain that was what Cora was counting on. 

“Miss Swan,” said Cora, her icy tones carrying unnaturally across the clearing and above the snarls of wolves and dog. “I am afraid I must inform you that there will be no renewal of your covenant tonight. Or ever again.” She flung out her arms in vicious triumph and the dark tendrils wrapped around her, not binding her as they had Emma and Killian, but caressing her, recognising one of their own. 

“What are you doing?” asked Emma, stalling for time as she grasped desperately at the edges of the barrier with her magic, trying to force it closed before Cora had a chance to complete her plan. 

“Why my dear,” said Cora, with a smile that held no hint of humour, “I would have thought that was obvious. I am opening this world to the power beyond and I am going to take control of it.” 

Cora pulled again with her magic and the unresisting darkness came gushing forth, ripping the knothole in the ancient oak and opening it wide, wider than the breadth of the trunk. Wider than it could _possibly_ be. The slender tendrils broadened into waves, twining and coiling up the branches of the oak and towards the sky, reaching out to the forest beyond the clearing, calling to it in voices sibilant with seductive menace.

Emma gripped the edges of the barrier and held on with all her strength, trying desperately to stop the ripping and knit the fabric back together, but it is far easier to destroy a thing than to repair it and no sooner had she closed one breach than five more appeared in its place, the knothole gaping ever wider. 

Cora cackled in triumph as darkness caressed and strengthened her, then the wolves began to advance on Emma again, their bared teeth razor-sharp and glistening in the orange moonlight, and in her terror she lost her grip on the barrier entirely. 

She couldn’t fight five wolves _and_ Cora’s magic. Not alone. 

Her magic surged and she could feel it stretching, reaching out, _seeking_ … and when it found what it sought she gasped and pressed the heel of her hand to her chest, stunned and reeling from the near sexual sensation of magical transference, of her own power flowing freely into another being across a connection that did not need to be forged— because it already existed, and always had. _Always,_ since the dawn of the world.

“Killian,” she whispered, and he stepped forward, radiant in the darkness as her magic crackled through his fur and set his eyes aglow, like sapphires in a flame. His growl was as none she’d ever heard from him before, sinister and chillingly resonant, and his voice rang strong and confident in her head. 

_{I’ll handle the wolves, love. You take care of the witch, and see your covenant completed.}_

She saw him leap, snarling, at the nearest wolf, and then she closed her eyes and _focused_ , pushing away her fears for Killian’s safety and of the consequences should Cora’s plan succeed. She pushed it all away and focused only on the magic. 

Cora was strong and the darkness embraced her, sensing at long last its chance to consume this world as it had done so many others. The twisting waves of it now filled the clearing and beyond, wrapping around the trees and swallowing up the forest creatures, gleefully snacking on their life force and preparing for a _feast_. But the darkness in _its_ hubris had forgotten that the covenant did not just protect this world from it, but it from the protectors of this world. Powerful as it was, it could not stand against three and a half centuries of clever witches who had each spent her life preparing for just such a moment as this. 

Emma reached deep into herself and called to her ancestors across another connection, one she had nurtured all her life with the household rituals her enemy disdained. She called to their knowledge and their wisdom and their power, drawing it out through the thin Samhain night. Light burst from deep within her, flowing forth in bright waves that enveloped the dark ones and burned them away, choked them in a merciless grip until they retreated back through the knothole to the safety of their realm, hissing in fear and fury and releasing Cora as they went. She stumbled in surprise and nearly fell, then spun around to gape at Emma. 

“What?” she hissed. “How?!”

“You are playing with forces you don’t understand, Cora Mills,” Emma replied, in a voice not entirely her own. “Cease now, and abandon these foolish plans.” 

“Never!” snarled Cora. “I know what I’m doing!” 

“You really don’t.” Emma sighed, sounding more like herself. “Remember I gave you a choice.” 

She flung out her hand and a burst of light enveloped Cora, sending her flying backwards into a tree and immobilising her. She howled in fury but Emma ignored her and turned her attention to the barrier, seeking out each and every tear in the fabric of the world and closing them for good and all. 

~~🍂 ~~

Magic flowed over Killian, flowed _through_ him, through fur and skin and muscle to the very marrow of his bones. He took no time to wonder how it could be that he was sharing Emma’s magic. They had already shared so much between them that it felt natural. Inevitable. He surrendered to it and let it strengthen him, let it coil into every fibre of his flesh and bone and then he struck. 

With a mighty leap he attacked, descending on the nearest wolf and sinking his teeth deep into it, ripping its throat from its body. The second wolf was upon him in an instant, tearing him with its own teeth, but Killian threw it off and batted it away with a swipe of his paw, leaving deep gouges in its face that gushed red. Snarling, he leapt on the wounded wolf, snapping its neck with a perfectly placed bite and then pain ripped through him as the other three wolves attacked him in unison. In a blur of fur and motion he could hardly see much less combat, they rent and tore at him, their teeth and claws sharp and their jaws powerful, lacerating his flesh and cracking his bones. They were stronger than he, even reinforced as he was by magic, and he _knew,_ as he had always known, that he wasn’t getting out of this fight alive. 

But he didn’t need to. All he needed was to protect Emma long enough for her to finish her spell. Just protect Emma. 

_Protect her._

Magic and adrenaline dulled his pain and the thought of Emma drove him on, powered his own claws and his teeth as he sank them into his enemies, slashing everything he could reach. Blood was pouring into his eyes but he had no need to see. His canine instincts took over and he surrendered to them, let them guide him until the final wolf had fallen lifeless to the ground and he shook the blood from his vision in time to watch Emma shoot a jet of pure white light at Cora, sending the older woman flying backwards into a tree just to his left and then Killian could see, could actually _see_ the flow of the magic as Emma pulled the ragged edges of the barrier together, closing it and weaving the fabric of the worlds tightly shut. 

Killian turned to face Cora and snarled with every ounce of the hatred he felt for her. 

Her eyes widened when she saw him, with shock and a fear that filled him with dark pleasure. “You!” she gasped. 

_{Aye,}_ he replied, knowing she could hear him. _{Me. You’ve lost, witch. Your plans are dust. She’s sealed the barrier and it will never open for you again.}_

“We’ll see about that,” Cora hissed, and as Killian watched she pulled up the last of her dark magic and disappeared in a swirl of smoke. 

Killian closed his eyes on a sigh of relief then turned back towards Emma, faltering as the magic began to drain from him and he felt how badly injured he was. His front right leg hung useless, ripped from its socket, and his back left leg was broken. Blood drenched his fur, flowing freely from wounds on every part of his body and deep gash across his belly cleft him nearly in two. 

That, Killian knew, was that the one that would kill him.

He staggered across the clearing on two legs, dripping blood and dragging entrails as he went, to where Emma sat crumpled in exhaustion on the forest floor. Whimpering softly, he licked her chin —one final kiss to say farewell— and she opened her eyes. 

“Killian! You— oh, goddess, what did they do to you?” 

He wanted to tell her that it was worth it, that she was everything good in his world and he would die for her a hundred times, but shadows were blurring the edges of his vision and he had no strength for speech. His legs gave out beneath him and he fell gracelessly to the ground, Emma’s cry of distress the last thing he heard before everything went black. 

~~🍂 ~~

Emma threw herself across Killian’s body, groping with the dregs of her magic to sense his life force. It was waning quickly, far too quickly; his injuries were too severe and she had no power left to heal him. 

“No,” she whispered, clutching at him, sinking her fingers into thick fur made sticky with blood. “No, no, _no_ …” 

Desperately, she cried out for magic, for any magic she could find, calling to the forest around her, the trees and the flowers and the earth itself, begging them to help her save him. She reached as far as she could stretch, into the very rocks of her house and the ancient magic that dwelt within, imploring it: _Don’t let him die._

And the rocks, who for eons had jealously guarded their energies, hoarding them dispassionately as generations lived and died within their sight, answered her call. Magic such as she had never known surged through her, almost overwhelmed her, and with the last of her strength she channeled it into Killian’s limp form, healing his wounds, repairing his battered body and sealing his life inside it. She could feel the moment he was whole again, and she sighed in relief and in profound gratitude, letting go of the magic and allowing the peace of unconsciousness to sweep over her. 

The last thing she felt was Killian stirring beneath her hands, his warm tongue licking her chin, his fur soft again against her skin as he curled himself protectively around her, the strong, steady beat of his heart. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO YES I ADDED ANOTHER CHAPTER. I couldn’t fit what I needed to fit into only one, and still do it well. I hope you don’t mind. 
> 
> For a while I wasn’t sure this chapter would come together at all, but then @thisonesatellite sorted me out, and reminded me that dogs with missing paws don’t run on four legs, and also fuelled me with German chocolate because she is the GREATEST. 
> 
> And as ALWAYS thank you to everyone reading, commenting, reblogging, kudos-ing. I TREASURE YOU ALL. 
> 
> In this chapter we learn what happened with Killian and Cora and FEELINGS ARE FELT. BIG FEELINGS.

Emma awoke to the blithe and piercing trill of birdsong just outside her bedroom window. It must be _just_ outside to be so close, she thought, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, willing the bird to take its song elsewhere so she could go back to sleep. She was so _tired_ , aching and heavy with exhaustion, and her bed so warm and comfortable. She rolled over, reaching for her quilt, intending to pull it up over her head to muffle the noise. When her hand encountered not soft patchwork but crisp leaves, she frowned and opened her eyes, struggling to comprehend the sight of the bright blue sky above her. Where _was_ she? 

Her sluggish mind groped for memories of the night before, unearthing them slowly at first and then in a rush: the clearing, the covenant, Cora, the wolves, the fight. Killian, torn and broken and all but dead; her soul-deep terror as she fought to save him… 

_Had she saved him?_

“Killian?” she whispered, looking around, then cried it in panic when she couldn’t see him. “Killian!” 

At first there was no response, then she heard rustling in the underbrush and he appeared, tail a blur, carrying something in his mouth. He dropped it in front of her and sat, tail still wagging, sending leaves and dirt flying as it brushed along the forest floor. She threw her arms around him, laughing as he licked her chin, grinning widely, his blue eyes bright. 

“You’re alive,” she whispered, pressing her face into his neck. “Thank the goddess.” 

He sighed into her hair as she rubbed her hands over him, feeling for any open wounds or broken bones. But there were none. He was completely whole. “You’re all right,” she breathed, “You’re all right.” Weak with profound relief she went limp against him, then tensed and sat up abruptly as another memory surfaced. “But what happened to Cora? What—” 

He nuzzled at her cheek. _{Later, love. Eat first.}_

“Eat?” 

He nudged the thing he’d brought her with his nose and she picked it up, examining the small parcel formed of folded leaves in wonder. Within she found a carefully selected collection of nuts and autumn fruits, all ones she regularly gathered herself from the forest at this time of year, lately with Killian at her side listening intently as she explained the uses and properties of each one. 

He’d brought her breakfast. 

“How did you manage this?” she laughed, digging in gleefully. She was _ravenous_. His tail thumped against the ground and he grinned his cheekiest grin.

 _{I have my ways.}_

“Oh yeah? Did you grow some opposable thumbs?” 

_{Not exactly.}_

She frowned in confusion and he smiled shyly, placing his paw gently on her arm. His left paw. She blinked rapidly and her mouth fell open. 

“Killian!” she cried. “You have a left paw! A real one!” 

“Aye!” he barked, and bounded away, leaping and dancing through the leaves, showing her how well he could use his new appendage. 

“But how—” she said in astonishment. He ran back to her and licked her hand, nuzzling it until it came to rest on his head. 

_{You did it, love.}_

“ _I_ did this? What, you mean… when I healed you last night?”

“Aye!” His tail wagged faster. 

“But— that shouldn’t be possible! My magic is strong but it can’t regrow a limb!”

_{You did use quite a lot of magic.}_

A dancing beam of sunlight chose that moment to break over him and Emma gasped, mouth dropping open again as she looked at it and then at the forest around them. Now that she was fully awake and her hunger curbed the odd incongruities that had been tickling at the edges of her mind began to resolve. The clearing where they sat was as she remembered, with the ring of slender birches and the old, gnarled oak at the centre, all just as it should be except the knothole in the trunk of the oak was gone. Emma frowned. It was _completely gone_. The air that ruffled through her hair was soft and the light that shone through Killian’s fur was radiant, and the birds... the birds were _singing_. 

Almost afraid of what she would find, she reached out and felt for magic. There was… none. Not a whisper of it. She looked up at the sky, clearly visible through the bare branches of the trees, golden sunlight pouring through them and bathing the forest floor for the first time in Emma’s memory. 

The _whole_ of her memory, and her ancestors’ too. 

“I used all the magic…” she murmured, straining to grasp the notion. “All of my own to fight Cora and then all of the forest’s when I healed you.” 

Killian frowned, a bit unnerved by her shock _. {Is it gone forever?}_

She shook her head and stroked his ears reassuringly. “No, it will replenish itself, and probably pretty quickly. All living creatures have an innate magic, generated by their… well, their life. Their life force. That magic can be channeled, set to another purpose, but it can never be destroyed. And it is constantly being renewed, for as long as things continue to live.” 

_{And what of your magic?}_

“My magic is the same. Constantly renewing as I use it, and actually pretty resilient. I can already feel it coming back, though it’ll be a while before I’m at full strength again. Things will return to the way they were, eventually. It’s just… weird, to see the forest like this.” 

“Aye!”

She looked around again, still trying to come to grips with it. “I mean, it really is _all_ gone. The only magic left anywhere is—” she looked sharply at Killian, eyes widening. “Yours.” 

_{Mine?}_ he barked in astonishment. 

“Only no, it’s not yours is it?” She frowned at the hazy aura around him, wondering how she could have failed to notice it before. It was distinctive but very faint, woven in a pattern she’d read about but never seen, and cast with a chilling malice. 

She stroked his head again and felt the magic tingle in her skin, and she understood. “Killian, you’re… are you cursed?”

He tried to bark but no sound emerged, and he looked at her with blue eyes pleading. 

“You are, aren’t you!” 

Closing her eyes, she focused her sight, looking not at the pattern of the curse or the form it gave him, but deep within him, to the very essence of who he was. “You’re a man!” she gasped.

He licked her chin. _{I couldn’t tell you.}_

“No, of course not, the curse would have prevented you.” She chuckled and shook her head. “I probably should be more surprised but actually this explains a hell of a lot.” 

Her laughter died away and a frown creased her forehead again as she took a closer look at the magic. “It’s a very clever curse, I have to admit,” she said. “It seems to have a built in cloaking spell that makes it almost impossible to see, even for me. Though honestly there’s a lot of ambient magic in my house and the forest, and even in Storybrooke, the traces must just have gotten lost in all the background noise. In more mundane surroundings I’m sure I’d’ve noticed the magic signature, even with a cloak shielding me from realising that you’ve never really acted like a dog” 

He looked mildly affronted. _{I think I’ve been a_ very _convincing dog, love.}_

“Who barks ‘aye’ and understands human language and raises his eyebrows?”

 _{Dogs do that.}_

“ _Do_ they, though?”

 _{Well, perhaps not the eyebrows.}_

She snorted another laugh but things were beginning to click together in her mind, and the picture that emerged was not an amusing one. “Did Cora do this to you?” she asked quietly.

His bark was soft. “Aye.”

“Why?”

_{I believe I can show you.}_

He nudged his head under her hand again and closed his own eyes, then Emma gasped in astonishment as the curse magic surged and she found herself no longer in the forest clearing but in a small, cramped room, stark and glaringly lit, its walls formed of white metal strips and a long, complicated control panel with a confusion of screens and buttons and dials that took up one entire side. Men and women in dark blue uniforms were hurrying to and fro and the smell of the sea was faint but detectable, and Emma surmised that she must be on some sort of military ship. 

One of the uniformed men caught her eye, a young and handsome one with dark hair falling across his forehead, highlighting his blue eyes —Killian’s eyes— as he frowned at one of the screens. Without warning the control panel exploded in a burst of flame, sending the man flying backwards and burying him beneath a heap of crumpled metal and burning plastic. Instinctively, Emma ran to help him but when she reached out her hand it went right through the twisted metal that trapped him, as though it were air. 

_Of course,_ thought Emma, feeling foolish. _This is a vision_. 

The man groaned and she could see that the debris had fallen around him with suspicious precision, leaving him uninjured save for the left hand that was trapped under part of the panel. He tugged on his arm, attempted to push off the weight, but all in vain, and she could see him begin to panic. Shudders racked the ship as more explosions sounded in the distance and the wreckage shifted, allowing the man to pull himself free. His sigh of relief became a gasp of shock, his eyes widening and dulling with horror as he took in the sight of the hand hanging limply from his wrist, its bones crushed and its skin burned, and then another series of explosions shook the ship again. 

“Liam,” the man whispered, scrambling to his feet, swaying, crying out in pain as he stumbled and knocked his injured hand against another piece of wreckage. Cradling the hand against his chest he ran from the room, staggering and falling against walls as the ship swayed, until he reached a blue door and wrenched it open, stumbling into the room behind it with a wordless wail of distress. Heedless of his hand, he fell to his knees before the man Emma could now see sprawled on the floor, this one with lighter, curly hair but similar enough that she was not surprised when the man with Killian’s eyes called him brother. 

“Liam. Wake up, brother.” It was Killian’s voice but rough now with unshed tears. His face was smooth and young, perhaps twenty years of age, but as he shook his brother’s lifeless form it filled with an agony that was ageless. “Liam, please wake up, we have to get out of here. Liam!” 

“He won’t wake.” 

The man spun around in alarm at the unexpected words, spoken by a woman lounging elegantly on a chair in a corner of the room. Emma tensed as she recognised Cora, her face younger but no less malicious, sneering at the brothers on the floor. “He’s dead.” 

“Who are you?” snarled the man. “How did you get here?”

“I am your salvation, Killian Jones,” she replied, cool and triumphant. 

Emma could see Killian bristle at her tone. “What the bloody hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means that I can get you off this ship alive, and assist you in seeking justice for your brother’s death. It was not, as I’m sure you’ve already worked out, an accident.”

“How?” Desperate anguish seethed from Killian, his eyes brimming with pain both physical and spiritual. He was frantic, Emma could see, too distraught to think clearly. “The ship is sinking and we’re miles from shore. What can _you_ do?”

“That is my concern, not yours. All you need to do is agree to my price.”

“And what is that?” 

“A simple favour.” Cora’s voice chilled Emma to the bone, but Killian’s face hardened, his mouth curving into a smile with a razor edge. “A favour of what nature?” he asked. 

“That will be determined at a later date,” she replied smoothly, rising from the chair and strolling across the room, unaffected by the pitching and rolling of the ship. “All that matters now is whether you are content to allow yourself to die and your brother to remain unavenged.” 

“I bloody well am not.” 

“Then we have an accord.” Cora held out her hand. 

“Aye.” Killian shook it. 

The image blurred and shifted and resolved into Killian, several years older, dressed in dark jeans and a black leather jacket with a short, scruffy beard on his chin, leaning against the wall of a corridor whose dingy paint and harsh lighting proclaimed it that of an industrial building. He slouched with an exaggerated nonchalance that completely failed to mask the tension in his body as he examined his fingernails and screams of agony issued from behind the closed door beside him. 

The door burst open and a man ran out, his eyes wide and terrified and a thin line of blood trailing from the corner of his left eye to his chin. Casually, Killian stuck out his foot and tripped the man, sending him tumbling into the beige concrete of the opposite wall. 

“Going somewhere, mate?” Killian inquired. His voice was icy and sneering, nothing like the one Emma was accustomed to hearing in her head. 

“Please,” said the man, “Please help me. She’s a witch!” 

“Aye, that she is. Which is why it’s best to do as she says. You won’t enjoy the consequences of resistance.” 

“Please,” the man begged. “I have a family.” 

“Tell me what you know, and your family will be unharmed.” Cora’s voice now, from the open doorway where she stood. “If you don’t… well let’s just say my lieutenant here is remarkably skilled with his… appendage.” 

Distaste flickered across Killian’s face, just for a moment before the stony mask fell back in place. He held up his left arm and brandished the sharp and nasty-looking hook attached to the end of it, the metal catching the faint light from the flickering bulb at the end of the corridor and gleaming viciously. 

The man swallowed hard at the sight, his feet scrabbling on the floor as he pressed himself back against the wall. 

“Emily,” drawled Killian. “That’s your wife’s name, isn’t it? Lovely woman.” The leer in the last two words made Emma faintly sick. “And your daughters are Sophie and Taylor. You live at 15 Rosemount Lane, and—” 

“All right!” choked the man, pounding his clenched fist against his leg in impotent protest. “All right. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, just please don’t hurt my family!” 

Cora smiled, a satisfied, chilling smile, and advanced on the cowering man as Killian turned away, his expression twisting with self-loathing now that Cora was no longer watching him. 

“Now,” Cora purred. “Tell me about the prophecy.” 

The image shifted again and Emma found herself alone in a dark but elegantly appointed room. It had tall ceilings and tall windows with velvet curtains on either side and thick black night behind the panes. Dark red paper with a gilt feather pattern lined the walls and the only light came from the blazing fire in the marble fireplace. 

It was like something out of a gothic novel, Emma thought grimly. Cora certainly did know how to set a scene. 

The door opened and Killian entered. His shoulders were tight and his face blank, but when he saw that the room was unoccupied the tension drained from him and a bleak expression settled in his eyes. He went over to a small table tucked into a corner of the room and laden with crystal decanters of various sizes. Selecting one with the ease of long practice, he poured himself a generous measure of golden brown liquid then settled into a chair before the fire, slouching down and drinking deeply from his glass. 

He looked so sad, thought Emma, her heart twisting in sympathy. So hopeless. 

Another small table sat next to the chair, and Emma watched as Killian noticed a scrap of paper lying upon it, speared it with his hook and examined it without much interest until the words visibly clicked in his head and he jerked upright, sending liquor sloshing over the edge of his glass and onto his hand. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “Bloody _fucking_ hell!” 

“So now you know,” said Cora’s voice behind him. Killian leapt from the chair and rounded on her, backing her against the wall. 

“You used me,” he snarled. “From the very beginning.”

“Yes. I did,” confirmed Cora with a satisfied smile. “And you fell into line so obediently. Such a good little dog, so eager to avenge your dear brother…”

Emma could almost see Killian’s mind work as he put the pieces together. “ _You_ killed Liam!” Pain and fury wreathed his features. “You destroyed my ship. And my hand…”

“Oh yes. I took your brother and your career _and_ your hand from you.” 

Killian stepped back from her, shaking his head as if to deny her words, deny the truth. “Why?” 

“Come now, I’m sure you’ve worked it out by now. Clever boy like you.” 

“You needed me angry, and with no one else to turn to.” 

“I needed you angry, yes, and in my control. And away from _her_.” 

Killian sneered. “You don’t even know who she is, how can you keep me away from her? For all you know, we’ve already met.”

Cora shook her head. “No, I would have sensed her, felt traces of her magic on you if you had met. I may not know who she is but I know that she needs _you_. She needs her loyal hand. Very literally in this case.” She reached out and took his hook, lifting it up. “I ensured that she would never obtain it.” 

Killian’s face twisted into a vicious snarl, malicious in a way Emma would never have imagined him capable. “Never say never, Cora,” he mocked. “I’m sure you had some reason for showing me this.” He held up the scrap of paper, crumpling it in his hand and tossing it into the fire. “But I have given up trying to figure out why you do what you do. What I can say, with absolute certainty, is that I’ll have no part of it any longer. And I will find a way to stop you.” 

Once more the scene melted away, this time into a small but cosy wood-panelled room with a narrow stone-framed window set with rippled glass and books piled high and haphazardly on every surface. Killian sat at a broad, heavy desk, surrounded by perilously leaning stacks of them and reading one with intense concentration, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He was no longer a young man; mid-thirties, Emma estimated, still with the scruffy beard and messy hair but without a hook. His left arm ended in a mechanised prosthetic hand, which she noted in mild awe he was able to use to turn the pages of his book. 

A swirl of smoke, the purplish-blue hue of a bruise, rose up just to Killian’s left and when it dissipated Cora was sitting in a small leather armchair in the corner of the room, her smile as offensively sweet as her perfume. Emma coughed as the thick cloud of it nearly choked her, then scowled as she identified the scent. Jasmine. An innocent flower, symbolising love and purity. She ground her teeth. This woman had a _fucking_ nerve. 

“Well well,” Cora purred, rising gracefully and pacing the small room, trailing her fingertips along the bookshelves as her smile shifted into a supercilious smirk. “ _Professor_ Jones, I believe. My but you _have_ turned your life around. Tell me, does the faculty of your _esteemed_ university know that you used to be my thug?” 

“Cora,” drawled Killian, his features carefully schooled but with a muscle dancing from the tension in his jaw. “I wish I could say this is a pleasant surprise, but it is neither. What do you want?” 

The trailing fingertips came to rest on Killian’s open book, tapping on the corner of the page. He slammed it shut and Cora pursed her lips in a mocking parody of fear. 

“I have a use for you again.” She came around the desk to stand behind him, fingertips dancing up the length of his arm as he hissed out a furious breath. “A task I need you to carry out.” 

“And I told you ten years ago I’m not working for you anymore,” said Killian through gritted teeth. “I have no obligation to you and never did.” 

Anger flared in Cora’s eyes and then she shrugged. “Your unwillingness to cooperate is of no consequence, I’m afraid,” she whispered in his ear and when he turned to pull away from her she waved her hand. The blue smoke swirled again and they were standing in a small cabin, a single bare room, clumsily constructed, with late-afternoon light slanting through the lone rough-hewn window.

Killian hissed in a furious breath and Emma did the same. This cabin she had never seen before but the forest outside the window was unmistakable. _Her_ forest, where she was acquainted with every bough of the trees and every bramble of the underbrush and yet this woman who meant her and it unspeakable harm had built a _cabin_ here without her knowledge. She clenched her fists until blood seeped from beneath her fingernails and had to force her attention back to the scene in front of her. 

“Where the hell is this?” Killian was snarling, his fists as tight as her own. “What—” 

“This is the forest where the barrier will open.” 

Cora’s calm words silenced Killian, and he stared at her, his expression grim. “You found it,” he said flatly. 

“I did. And I found _her_.” 

His mask was back, Emma noted. The one he’d worn in the earlier visions. Blank and cold and sitting uncomfortably on his older face. She could see the pulse thrumming in his temple and the way he forced his body to relax. “What’s your plan?” he asked. 

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll tell you that,” Cora replied. “I don’t trust you, you see.” 

“And yet apparently you need me to do something for you.” 

“Yes.” Cora’s smile curled across her face like a cobra preparing to strike. “I need you to kill her.” 

Killian laughed, forced and humourless. “You need me to kill the witch who guards the barrier? And you think that’s something _I_ can do?” 

“Can’t you?” she inquired, running her hand up his chest. The coy note in her voice turned Emma’s stomach. “You used to be a very _dangerous_ man.” 

Killian caught her wrist in his prosthetic hand, squeezing it until she couldn’t conceal her pained grimace “Well now I’m a history professor,” he growled. “And the days when I could be manipulated by you are long gone.” He released her wrist, pushing her away. “Find someone else to do your dirty work.” 

He stalked to the door of the cabin and pulled it open then froze in alarm when the calm of the summer afternoon was broken by vicious snarls. He stumbled hastily backwards and slammed the door but not before Emma got a clear view of the five wolves she had last seen in the clearing the night before, circling the cabin, teeth bared. 

“Yes, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere soon, Professor,” said Cora gleefully. “So you see you have a very simple choice. Will you do as I ask, or will I open this door and let my friends tear you to pieces?”

Killian swallowed visibly, but his resolve was firm. With slow deliberation he turned and stared Cora down, his shoulders squared and his face implacable. “Do what you like,” he said coolly. “I won’t help you.” 

Cold fury settled on Cora’s face and she flexed her hands, her fingers claw-like as magic sparked from their tips, but Killian didn’t blink. He simply stood, glaring down at her as he awaited her countermove, his calm in the face of her anger stoking it higher. Emma saw Cora tremble with the effort of containing her vitriol until with an ugly snarl she broke eye contact with Killian and turned away. 

“Fine,” she hissed. “If that’s how you want to play this. We’ll see if you still feel the same way after a few days without food or water.” Blue smoke swirled and she was gone, leaving Killian alone in the barren cabin, wolves snarling just outside the door. 

The scene blurred again, just briefly before resolving back into the same cabin, now in the pitch black nighttime. Killian was sitting with his back resting against the door, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent, his elbow propped on his knee, his head in his hand. A wolf howled just outside the door and Killian jumped, flinging his arm out and bracing both feet firmly on the floor, tense and waiting. The howl sounded again, further away this time. Killian went limp, his head falling against the thin wood behind him with a faint thump. His face was strained and exhausted, his movements sluggish. Emma wondered how much time had passed. 

Smoke swirled and Cora appeared, glaring down at Killian with tight and furious disdain. “Are you ready to cooperate?” she asked. 

Killian shook his head. “Never.” 

Cora kept her features calm but Emma could see wrath simmering behind her eyes, and an oddly helpless frustration. “What happened to you, Killian?” she asked, in a voice so close to being kind that it was chilling, and Killian flinched at the sound of his name in that tone. “You used to be such an obedient little dog. When did you grow a spine?” 

“The moment I realised you were the one who took my brother from me,” snarled Killian. “And I saw that all those years working for you I was betraying his memory, becoming something he would have _despised_.” His eyes flashed and his lip curled and in that moment he was terrifying. “ _Never_ again will I do anything that serves your ends. I’d die first.” 

“That can be arranged,” snapped Cora as her frustration overcame her. 

“Can it?” Killian pushed himself up from the floor and advanced on Cora, still with the curl in his lip and a malevolent glint in his eye. She stood her ground but Emma could sense a flash of fear. “I’m not so sure it can. You have already had so _many_ opportunities to kill me, and yet here I am, still alive. You blew up a Royal Navy destroyer —which is no mean feat, darling, most impressive— easily killing Liam in the blast but _I_ survived. You had me at your side for years showing off your power as you used it to terrorise and coerce others, but you never turned it on me. You relied on my belief that I owed you for getting me off that ship alive and that I would need your aid to avenge Liam to keep me in line, and when I learned there was no debt you did nothing to stop me leaving. Why not kill me then? Why not kill me days ago instead of leaving me here? Why not kill me now?” He stepped back and held his arms wide. “I’m helpless here, Cora. I have no weapons, I’m weakened from lack of food and water. A child with a pointy stick could kill me, why can’t _you_?” 

Cora was seething, her magic sparking around her. “I _can_ ,” she hissed, but the lie was plain on her face and Killian smiled, a nasty, gloating smile. 

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Something is preventing you. What is it?” 

Emma could see the moment when Cora’s fury boiled over, thickening the air around her with her magic as it roiled and heaved. She could see the threads of it as Cora wove them into a dark and spiteful curse and she couldn’t help crying out a warning even knowing Killian couldn’t hear it. 

“I may not be able to kill you, but I can get you out of the way,” cackled Cora, then she flung out her arm and enveloped Killian in a cloud of bruise-blue smoke. When it swirled away the man was gone, and in his place stood the black dog Emma knew so well. “I always liked you best as a dog,” remarked Cora over her shoulder as she went to the door and flung it open. “Do what you like with him,” she told the wolves, and disappeared in her own dark cloud. 

Killian spun around as the wolves began to stalk slowly into the cabin, moving awkwardly in his new body and stumbling on his shortened left limb. Emma could feel his confusion and fear as he attempted to find his feet and his bearings, all while the wolves advanced, slowly backing him into a corner, their red eyes ravenous and triumphant. As their bodies tensed in preparation for attack Killian fell into a crouch, bared his teeth, and _snarled_ , deep and menacing and with a viciousness to rival their own. The wolves fell back in confusion and Killian leapt through the nearest gap in their circle, landing clumsily but quickly righting himself and racing out the door on three legs, kicking it shut behind him and trapping the wolves inside. 

He ran blindly through the forest and the vision took Emma with him. She sensed more than saw the passage of time, feeling days go by as Killian wandered, always moving, never sleeping for more than an hour or two at a time, constantly alert for any sign of Cora or the wolves. He snatched drinks of water and scraps of food wherever he could find them, just barely enough to keep him alive and with enough energy to press onwards. She watched as he adjusted to his canine form, learning to run fast and gracefully on three legs and limp as best he could when moving more slowly. She felt his humanity begin to slip away from him, felt his animal instincts become more dominant, and then one afternoon as he was trotting along he spotted a rabbit and took off unthinkingly to chase it, crashing through the underbrush in pursuit of his first good meal in nearly a week. He almost had the rabbit in his jaws when he stepped on a pile of leaves and his paw sank deep into the ground, and Emma cringed as she heard his leg snap. 

Killian cried out in pain, whimpering as he tugged at his leg, attempting to free it from the gopher hole where it was tightly wedged, but it refused to budge. She could _feel_ his agony and his growing desperation and then—

The hawthorn bush beside him shifted, its thorny branches parting and moving aside to clear a path and with a shock of surprise even though she knew this was coming, Emma saw herself. Saw Killian look up at her, saw his eyes widen and felt another shock, this one of recognition, and passing through Killian’s body. Heard a soft voice in his head whisper _that’s her_ , then Killian’s pained whine and the first words she’d heard him speak. 

_{Please help me.}_

Emma gasped as the vision fell away and she was back in the same forest with the same dog, gazing at her with achingly familiar blue eyes, their expression almost shy. 

“You recognised me!” she exclaimed. 

“Aye!” 

“How?”

He shrugged. _{I have no idea. Magic?}_

Emma’s head was spinning with wonder and confusion and too many emotions to name. “It’s true that magic can’t always be explained,” she murmured, then stroked his ears and spoke even more softly. “Killian,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” 

He shifted closer, snuggling against her side to comfort her. _{For what, love?}_

“You were cursed because of me. Because you wouldn’t kill me.” 

_{Darling, no.}_ He licked her chin. _{I was cursed because Cora is evil.}_

“But I—” 

_{Emma.}_

She broke off at the sound of her name, realising with a start that he had never called her by it before. 

_{Nothing that happened to me is your fault.}_ His eyes were so soft, so gentle as he looked up at her _. {It was all Cora. You saved me, love.}_

“I didn’t—” 

_{You did. So many times. And I would do it all again, without hesitation. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.}_

Her eyes filled with tears and her heart with an emotion so overwhelming she couldn’t put a name to it. She could only throw her arms around him and hold him close as her tears dampened his fur, feeling the immense strength of the bond between them and marveling at what it meant. “Killian,” she choked, “I love you.” Taking his head in her hands she leaned forward and kissed him, right where his soft fur was its very softest, her _favourite_ spot, on his forehead just above his eyes.

Waves of iridescent light burst out from the gentle kiss and a whoosh of air and the strands beneath her fingers were no longer fur. They were still thick, still soft, but they were _hair_. Hair on a masculine and very human head. 

Emma gasped and jerked back, her wide eyes meeting astonished blue ones, now blinking at her in the face of the man from the visions. 

“Killian?” she breathed. 

“Emma.” A smile broke across his face, a wide, delighted grin that hurt her it was so familiar. How could he have the same smile as a dog and a man? He reached up and brushed the tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers. “You broke my curse.”

“I guess I did.” Her own hand trembled as she gently touched his cheek and he leaned into the caress, rubbing the stubble of his jaw against her palm. “How?”

He laughed. “I’m a historian, love. Magic is your department. But one thing I do know…” 

“What?” she whispered, as he leaned his forehead against hers, his thumb stroking the dimple in her chin, his fingers in her hair. 

“I love you too,” he whispered back, and brought his lips to hers. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I would like to begin by sharing a snippet of conversation I had with @thisonesatellite when I first told her my plans for this fic. I don’t remember all the details but here’s the gist: 
> 
> Me: *tells* 
> 
> Me: “It’ll be four chapters, about 20,000 words.” 
> 
> Her: “It’s so cute that you think you can write that in 20,000 words.” 
> 
> Me: “20k. Max.”
> 
> HAHAHAHAHAHA so obviously I WAS WRONG. I tragically underestimated the number of words I would need to tell this story. So now there are six chapters. AND THAT WILL BE ALL. 
> 
> Ahem. ANYWAY. 
> 
> In this chapter Emma and Killian deal with the aftermath of the curse breaking, there is some bonding and some sexy times and a library that will make you DROOL.

Emma was never quite certain how she got home that morning. A soft haze obscured her recollections of the journey, like the delicate lace of frost on a winter windowpane or a particularly tedious Instagram filter. On top of the woozy exhaustion that always plagued her after intense magic use there was also the discovery of Killian’s true nature, the visions with their troubling revelations about Cora and his past, plus breaking a _freaking_ _curse_ , and if that weren’t already more than enough to make her head spin, that kiss… the soft, wet warmth of Killian’s mouth on hers would render her dizzy and faint even if she hadn’t channeled immense amounts of magic mere hours before. 

It is therefore, as you will surely agree, unsurprising that all she could ever remember of making her way back to her house was the radiant sunshine dappled by late autumn leaves, the sharp bite of frost the air, and Killian’s hand warm in her own, his arm around her shoulders and his body solid and reassuring as she leaned against him, her head tucked against his shoulder, breathing in the spicy scent of his skin. 

He guided her straight upstairs to her bedroom, helping her out of her wrinkled and leaf-strewn gown and into her pajamas before tucking her under her quilt. His fingers traced her cheek with the gentlest touch and she caught his hand, sensing his intent. 

“Don’t go,” she murmured. “Stay with me.” 

“Are you sure, love?” 

Such a simple phrase but she could hear every shade of meaning in the tone of his voice, Emma marvelled. The desire not to leave her warring with hesitation, uncertainty over what exactly his place was in her life now that he no longer wore the guise of a dog. She understood, and she knew there were important conversations they needed to have, but also she was desperate for sleep and certain she wouldn’t manage a wink without him there beside her. She squeezed his hand. “Stay.” 

He smiled and nodded and removed his own rumpled shirt and trousers before sliding into bed behind her, snuggling close and wrapping her securely in his arms. Emma sighed and was asleep in an instant. 

She awoke in the late afternoon just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, its bending rays bathing the sky in fiery blaze orange and softer coral, shot with streaks of heliotrope and brilliant rose. Only a sunset could make those colours go together, she thought with a smile, but in it they were breathtaking. 

Killian was still behind her, the protective curl of his body around hers so achingly familiar despite his altered form. From the cadence of his breathing she knew he was awake, though his only movement was his fingers twisting absently through the ends of her hair.

She turned in his arms and was met by his smile, brighter and more brilliant than any sunset, flooding her racing heart with a wave of warmth and sparks born of a different sort of magic. “How are you feeling?” he asked. 

“Better.” She smiled back at him. “Good. Wonderful, in fact. _Starving_.” 

He laughed. “Shall we have some dinner?” He moved to slide from the bed, halting on a sharp inhale when she laid her hand flat against his bare chest. 

“I’m not just hungry for food, Killian,” she said. The tingle in her blood was making her dizzy again but the day of restful sleep had restored her strength and she was buzzing and energised and _ravenous_. 

He caught her meaning instantly and his eyes widened, glazing with answering hunger and heat and a trace of doubt. “Are you—” 

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” she cut him off. “I am, completely. I’m still not certain how we broke your curse or shared my magic or what any of this is or what it means, but I know that I’ve never felt _anything_ like this connection between us and I really, really want to make it physical. I _need_ to. Is that okay?”

“You will definitely not hear any argument from me, love.” 

He gave her another of his impossibly familiar grins and she took a moment to marvel at just how much of the man had been present in the dog without her even noticing and then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. 

In common with many witches Emma’s beliefs, in the abstract, were very open about sex. Far from being considered sinful it was seen as a natural and integral part of life, elemental as water and air, earth and fire. 

In the abstract. Practically speaking Emma was a shopkeeper in a small town where everyone knew everyone else and people _talked_. Where the local witch taking up with anyone would be a point of extreme interest to far too many people and there would be _expectations_ and _pressure_ and _questions_ , and all things considered Emma had always found that celibacy was simply easier. 

Meaning it had been some considerable time since she’d been touched. And she had never, _never_ used her magic during sex. 

Yet when Killian’s mouth opened under hers and his hand caressed her bare skin she found herself overcome, helpless against the rush of power that thrummed through her. Not her power, though. _His_. 

“How…” she gasped when they broke apart for air, unable to form any more complex words but certain he would understand. 

He did. “It’s in my hand, I think,” he said. “The magic that healed it. There was so much of it and not all got used. It’s— part of me now.” He stroked her cheek with his left hand and she could feel the vibrations of the magic it held. “And what’s part of me is part of you,” he whispered. “That’s how you feel it too. I think.” 

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. It’s— I mean, it shouldn’t—” 

“Emma.” His hand slid from her cheek to her hair, his eyes soft and amused and desperate. “I’m sure there’s a fascinating explanation but right now I do _not_ care. Do you?” 

“No.” She pulled him back down to her, surrendering completely to the energy that sparked wherever their skin met, and the intensely arousing sensation of someone else’s magic flowing through her. 

_Why the fuck not?_ she thought. Nothing about Killian had ever been what she expected, why should sex with him be any different? 

He took the lead and she let him, another new departure for her, let him slip the clothing from her body with an infuriating lack of haste as his hands and mouth unerringly sought out every spot that yearned for their touch, heightening her pleasure layer upon layer, higher and higher, _impossibly_ high, until she was sobbing and clawing at him and prepared to _beg_. 

And when he finally — _finally_ — slid inside her, joining their bodies in tandem with their hearts, the magic was an _inferno_ , consuming them as they clung to each other, as they moved together in a rhythm both ancient and uniquely their own until the waves of magic turned to ecstasy and they fell apart, in pieces and more whole than they had ever been. 

Emma had no idea how long they lay together, entwined and still joined, but by the time she felt capable of thought and movement the last rays of the sun had faded and the light through her bedroom window was the glow of the pale moon above the treetops. 

“Gods, I’m starving,” she said. 

“Again? Give a man a chance to recover, love, after you wring him dry like an old flannel.”

She laughed. “ _This_ time I’m talking about food.” 

“Well thank fuck for that. I could definitely do with some nourishment.”

~~ 🌕 ~~

They raided the kitchen and feasted on whatever they could find that required no cooking: roasted corn and squash left over from the Samhain bonfire that seemed so much more than just a day ago, bread spread thick with butter and honey or generous slices of cheese, apples and slightly stale soul cakes and very hot tea. 

Emma was so hungry she’d have eaten anything and cared little for the taste but it was all delicious, spiced by the magic still sparking in the air and the pleasure of eating with Killian, properly this time, with him sitting next to her at the table rather than under it. 

“So,” said Emma, once the most demanding of their hunger pangs were quieted. “It feels really weird asking you this, after… well, after everything, but your last name is Jones, right? I remember from the vision.” 

“It is.”

Emma’s brow creased as she tried to kick her sluggish brain into gear. “Killian Jones,” she mused. “ _Why_ does that name sound so familiar?”

“I’ve no idea. I spent most of my life on the sea or in England, though I have lived in Boston for the past few years—” 

“Boston,” she interrupted, as faint bells began to chime in her memory. “Harvard University Press. Was it a book cover? Did you write a book?”

“Aye.” 

A very inelegant snort of laughter burst from her. 

“What?” Killian grinned at her mirth but his eyes were puzzled. 

“Sorry.” She held up her hand as another wave of giggles overcame her. “Sorry. I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to hear you say that without remembering how you used to bark it.” She laughed again and this time he joined her, blue eyes twinkling. 

“You might want to get over that,” he teased. “I say ‘aye’ rather a lot. It’s a navy thing.” 

“I’ll do my best.” She wiped her eyes and breathed deeply to stifle the giggles. “Anyway, you were saying you wrote a book.” 

“Ay— er, _yes,_ I did. A history of the traditions of witchcraft from England to North America.” 

“That’s it!” She snapped her fingers triumphantly as the pieces fell into place, then waved her hand in a circular motion ending with it palm up in front of her. Nothing happened. She frowned and waved it again, with more of a flourish this time but the same lack of result. Killian watched her curiously as she stared dumbfounded at her empty hand then rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’m an idiot,” she said. “I forgot I’m so low on magic. It’s practically zinging through the air but none of it is the kind I can use. It’s a weird feeling. Anyway, I was trying to summon your book from my library but it looks like that’s not happening so I guess we’ll just have to get it the mundane way.” She looked at him, mischief glinting in her eye. “You’re a history professor, right?” 

“Ay— I am.” 

She grinned. “You’re going to _love_ this.” 

Grabbing his hand she pulled him up from the table and along behind her out of the kitchen and through the living room to a door that he had never seen opened for the whole of the time he had lived in her house. Emma opened it and guided him up a narrow and winding set of worn stone stairs, her movements quick and certain despite the darkness. 

“Sorry there’s no light,” she said. “I’d put some on, but, you know, no magic.” 

“It’s okay—” began Killian and then they arrived at the top of the stairs and the words died in his throat as his mouth fell open and his eyes widened and he gaped with an expression of mute stupefaction that he would have known was comical even if Emma hadn’t burst out laughing at the sight of it. 

“Pretty great, huh?” she said. 

Killian had been in many extraordinary libraries in his time, from the stately magnificence of the Bodleian at Oxford to the hushed gravity of the Reading Room at the British Museum, from the sprawling glory of the New York Public Library to the actual Vatican Archives, where he hadn’t even been able to enjoy himself for fear of breathing improperly and getting kicked out. 

But none of them had prepared him for Emma’s library. 

Every inch of the walls was lined with carved wooden shelves, precisely fitted to the graceful curves of the circular room and broken only by the door they’d used to enter and another on the other side, and randomly placed windows of varying sizes and shapes through which pearly moonlight slanted, illuminating the round and sturdy oak table at the centre of the room and the rows upon rows upon rows upon _rows_ of books. These rows curved around and around in the endless arc of a helix, twisting up much farther than his eye could see to the very top of the sharply pointed tower. 

Killian swallowed hard and with immense effort found his voice. “Why did we never come in here before?” he croaked. 

Emma shrugged. “I usually just summon the books I need. It’s kind of a pain to dig through them by hand so I came up with a spell that sorts them based on the criteria I give it.” 

Killian turned his astonished gaze on her. “You have a librarian spell?” 

“Yeah.” Emma frowned at him as he began to laugh. “Why is that funny?”

He shook his head. “It’s just my friend Belle would not be happy if she knew that was a thing. You could put her out of a job.” He looked around again, struggling to grasp the extent of her collection. There must be thousands of books, he thought. _Hundreds_ of thousands. “You really have _my_ book in here?” he asked her, ridiculously flattered at the idea. 

“Yep.” The room shifted with no apparent motion and a tall, rectangular window that Killian felt certain had been a good ten feet above their heads moments before was right where they stood. Emma pulled a book from the shelf beside it. “Here it is.” She held the book up in the shaft of moonlight from the window so he could see its familiar cover. “I enjoyed it.” 

“You _read_ it?”

“Of course. I read everything written about witchcraft. It’s important to know what’s going on in people’s minds. Your book was better than most, though of course there’s a lot missing.” 

“ _Missing?_ ” 

“Uh huh. Oh, don’t worry, it’s not your fault,” she hurried to add when she caught his disgruntled look. “Most of the stuff you left out I’d’ve been worried if you’d included. We keep it hidden for a reason.” 

“That… makes a lot of sense, actually,” acknowledged Killian, somewhat mollified. 

“Mmmm,” agreed Emma. “Um. Can I ask you a question?” 

“Of course.” 

“What made you want to study the history of witchcraft?”

His expression shifted and he gave her an odd look, wondering and tinged with awe. “You did,” he said softly. 

“Me?” 

“Aye. I didn’t know it was _you_ at the time, of course. I just wanted to find out more about the witch Cora was looking for.” 

“But why was she looking for a witch?” asked Emma, voicing the question that had been niggling at her for some time. “For _me,_ I guess?”

Killian blew out a heavy breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Now that is a tale,” he said. “Do you mind if we sit, love, and I’ll tell you all I know?”

“Sure.” Emma returned his book to her shelf and they sat together at the table, in large and ornately carved chairs that were far more comfortable than they looked. 

Killian took her hand in his, absently, caressing her knuckles with his thumb as he began his tale. “Cora has practiced witchcraft all her life, taught by her mother as I believe most witches are,” he said, looking to Emma for confirmation. She nodded, and he went on. “She was always fascinated by the High Magic and by the stories of ancient witches who had great power, and she spent quite a lot of time studying those things. During the course of her studies she found a prophecy—” Emma made a disgusted noise “— just fragments of it but it enthralled her to the point of obsession, and from then on she pursued it single-mindedly. Over the years she pieced together more and more of it until she believed what she had was nearly complete.” 

“And what exactly was in this _prophecy_?” spat Emma. 

Killian looked startled at her tone but replied easily. “It speaks of a day when dark magic would be driven from this world for good. Of a witch descended from centuries of those who did not have to hide their gifts, with distilled power of her ancestors who would seal the breach. It... speaks also of that witch’s true love, whose aid she would require to complete the task. A man who could be her saving or her undoing.” He lowered his eyes, the flush on his cheekbones obvious even in the moonlight. When Emma remained silent he looked up to see her staring at him in disbelief and building fury, and his embarrassment became consternation. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“ _That’s_ what this has all been about?” she hissed. “Nearly tearing open the barrier, nearly killing you? All because of _that_ old thing?”

Killian frowned. “What old thing?”

Emma pushed her chair back and stood as the room shifted again. She stomped —there was no other word for it— over to a bookshelf and grabbed a leather-bound book as large as a dinner tray and thick as a club sandwich, then stomped back to the table and dropped it in front of Killian with an echoing thud. Killian’s eyes widened as he caught the title: _Viarum Finis Omnium_. The end of all roads. 

“Bloody hell,” he breathed. 

Emma hefted the book open and began ruffling through its pages. “Hmmm?” she said absently. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Killian waved his hand in an exaggerated gesture, though she wasn’t looking at him. “It’s just when I was doing my dissertation I’d’ve given my left nut to read this book.”

“Oh.” Emma paused, frowning at the book like she couldn’t fathom why anyone might find it important. “Well, you can read it now if you’d like. But I’ve got others that are loads better.” 

“Others…” said Killian faintly as she turned another page and found what she was looking for. 

“ _Here_ it is,” she said triumphantly, _it_ being apparently the wrinkled and faded and folded piece of parchment she snatched from the book, handling it with a casual indifference that made the historian in Killian want to cry. She snapped it unfolded with an angry flourish and held it out to him. 

“Is this the prophecy you mean?” 

He took the parchment from her gently, touching only the edges. “This is it!” he exclaimed. “This is the whole thing. But… have you always known it was about you?”

“It’s not about me.”

“What?” He looked up at her and she scowled. 

“I mean, it’s not _necessarily_ about me. It could be about anyone in my family. It could be about no one. It could —and I’m gonna be honest, this is my take— be complete bullshit.” 

He managed not to roll his eyes. “I know you don’t think much of foretelling, love—” 

“ _That’s_ the truth.” 

“But are you sure there’s never been anything to suggest that this is about you? Cora is not nearly as clever as she thinks she is but she did devote her life to figuring out this prophecy and she did identify us both… and if you and I aren’t the witch and the man it refers to then that leaves rather a lot of odd things unexplained.” 

Emma folded her arms across her chest, her expression that of a child who won’t admit it’s bedtime. “Such as?”

“Well, there’s your garden magic,” said Killian. “For a start.” 

“What about my garden magic?”

“It recognised me. The first time I stepped into the garden the magic there _knew_ me. It welcomed me like an old friend, and warned me that danger was coming. It told me to protect you.” 

“Hmmm,” said Emma, still scowling. 

“And your own magic, love,” continued Killian, gentle but relentless. “You shared it with me.” 

“I did do that,” Emma unfolded her arms and sighed. “Which shouldn’t be possible. Witches can link their power but to share magic with someone who has never practiced, and so _easily_ … Well, it basically can’t be done.” 

“And yet it was done.”

“But not because of a stupid prophecy—” 

“And how can you explain my hand?” He held it up. “How did I get my whole hand back, and with added magic?”

Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. You’re right. There’s a lot that’s weird about all of this, though I’m just never going to believe that any of it can be explained by a prophecy. There’s gotta be more to it.” 

She took his left hand in hers, examining it closely. “Why did Cora take your hand in the first place? I’m assuming she arranged for it to be damaged.” 

“Aye, and then she amputated it with magic. I’m not certain why exactly but I imagine she was Shown something that told her you would need it, or need something I could do with it.” 

“Shown,” echoed Emma grimly. “Which means she has the gift of sight,”

“Sight, aye,” Killian agreed, “but interestingly not perception. She found the prophecy but she couldn’t fully understand it, so she turned to her Sight for answers. Which it provided. But I’ve always suspected she misinterprets the things she Sees.”

“And that is why the Sight is next to useless,” scoffed Emma. 

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t change the fact that Cora’s Sight what drives her. She asks to be Shown things and then acts decisively on what she Sees. She asked to be Shown the witch from the prophecy but her Sight couldn’t conjure you, so she asked to See the man instead. And was Shown me. This was years ago, when I had just joined the navy. It took her about two years to track me down after that.”

“The first vision,” said Emma. “She— did she really destroy your whole ship?”

“Aye,” said Killian grimly. “A few well-placed blasts of magic and the whole thing went under. It was the worst disaster in modern British naval history, and there was no _logical_ explanation for it. And I was the only survivor.” His hand clenched into a fist on the tabletop. “It was declared an Act of God and afterwards the navy _gently suggested_ that perhaps I wasn’t best suited to a career with them. Gave me an honourable discharge and no option of appeal.” 

“Oh, Killian.” Emma covered his fist with her hand and he unclenched it to grip her fingers tightly. “What did you do?” she asked. 

“Well, I had no family and no employment and no place to go. And a rash deal with Cora that left me in her debt, which is of course exactly where she wanted me. She came to me in what she claimed was generosity and offered me a job doing her dirty work and I thought why the fuck not? How much worse could my life get? Only it turned out that my life could get _considerably_ worse. Cora was in search of any information she could find about the prophecy, and she, as you saw, did not hesitate to use her magic, and me, as weapons to obtain it.”

“But you stayed with her.” 

“Aye, because I felt I had no other option. Exactly as she knew I would. I believe her aim was to corrupt me to the point where I could be used to destroy you. ‘The man can be her undoing,’ remember. Cora interpreted that literally to mean I would be able kill you as she couldn’t.” 

“But what stopped her from killing me? Or at least trying to, I’m actually not that easy to kill.” 

He chuckled, as she’d hoped he would, and shifted his hold on her hand so their fingers were linked. “Her Sight told her it would be disastrous to attempt it. I can only assume it Showed her the same thing about me.” 

“Which is why she cursed you instead of just killing you.” 

“Indeed. It was a bit of a gamble, my challenging her like that, but I figured what else could I do? It was either run with my theory that the Sight had instructed her not to kill me or die anyway, either of starvation or wolves.”

Her hand tightened on his, her mouth thinning as she thought of how she had nearly lost him before they’d even met. 

“What was on that paper you found? That you threw in the fireplace?”

His mouth twisted wryly. “It said ‘Killian Jones is the man in the prophecy.’ Not much, I grant you, but once I knew that, and realised that _she_ knew it and had likely known it since the beginning, a lot of things that had always struck me as peculiar suddenly fell into place. Like why she needed me, why she would go to so much trouble to get me in her control.” 

“But do you think she showed you that deliberately?”

“I do. She must have, she’s not careless enough to leave anything lying around unless she intended me to find it.” 

“But why?”

His thumb rubbed absent patterns on the back of her hand as he thought. “This is all just conjecture,” he said after a short pause, “but I believe she realised that I wasn’t fully on board with what she was doing. As awful as the things I did for her were, as much as they ate away at my soul, some small part of me always resisted, found little ways to thwart her. And she needed me fully committed. I believe she thought that if she let me go I would be lost again as I had been after I was discharged from the navy. That I would eventually come back to her of my own volition and then she would have me.”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t go back.” 

“No. I was determined not to, no matter what it took. I knew I had to find a way to stop her, and the first step would be to learn as much as I could about that prophecy, and about witchcraft, and about the particular witch she sought.” He smiled at her. “About you. So I became a historian, specialising in the history of witchcraft and the occult.” 

“And Cora kept waiting for you to come crawling back,” said Emma, an edge of deep satisfaction in her voice. “But you never did, so she had to come to you. And she found you a successful college professor.” 

Killian chuckled. “Aye. She must have hated that.” 

Emma thought about everything he’d been through, all he had suffered, and how he had still come through it all and beaten Cora at her own game. Love for him surged in her chest. “You’re amazing,” she sighed. 

He flushed bright pink and rubbed at a spot behind his ear, exactly the spot, Emma noted, where he had loved to be scratched when he was a dog. “Ah, I don’t know about that,” he muttered. 

“I do.” Emma wanted to crawl into his lap and have her way with him right there in her library, but she suspected he would be horrified by the prospect of fucking anywhere near ancient books so she settled for leaning across the table and kissing him gently. 

He returned the kiss but when they broke apart he shook his head. “I’ve done some awful things, Emma. You don’t know—” 

“I don’t need to,” she interrupted. “I’ve seen you, Killian, the _essence_ of you. You’re a good man.” 

“I’m not—” 

“You are. And I love you. All of you.” 

“Gods, Emma,” he whispered, leaning close to her again, resting his forehead against hers. “I don’t deserve— I’m not— ah, I love you so much.” He kissed her and she sighed, snuggling as close as she could get. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmured against her lips.

“Why not stay here?” She couldn’t resist teasing him. “We could—”

“ _On the books?_ ” He pulled back to gape at her, his eyes as horrified as she’d known they would be. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Love, I don’t think you fully realise just how valuable, how important these books are—” 

“I was kidding,” she soothed him. “We’ll go to bed. And afterwards, I’ll tell you all about my plan for giving Cora what’s coming to her.” 

“Mmmm,” he growled. “That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

~~ 🌕 ~~

The next morning they went to the shop together, almost as they always had except that the forest was as warmly welcoming as a frosty collection of trees can be and they walked along the path side by side and hand-in-hand. When they reached the edge of the village Emma could feel Killian tense, but they strolled unimpeded down the streets and no one they encountered reacted in any way to the sight of Emma holding hands with a strange man or stopped to ask her where her dog had gone. 

“Hmmm,” said Killian, frowning as Leroy went past them with a gruff nod and no hint of surprise. 

When they reached the shop door he kissed her and squeezed her hand before releasing it. “I think I’ll go see if I can find some new clothes, love,” he said. “And discover if my credit cards still work after I’ve been missing for several months. _And_ I really should contact someone and let them know what happened. Er, as much of it as I can tell them, at least.” 

Emma nodded. “You can use the computer in the back room if you need to. And there’s a shop at the corner of Main and Oak that sells men’s clothes.” 

“Aye, I think I remember it. I’ll be back soon.” He kissed her again, then headed off towards Oak Street. Emma watched him go and tried not to feel bereft. 

“Don’t be an idiot, he’s only going two blocks away,” she told herself firmly. But after nearly three months of Killian being constantly at her side even a short separation felt weird, and the shop empty and echoey without him. 

Fortunately he returned in less than an hour, dressed in new jeans and a soft blue sweater that brought out his eyes. “This is nice,” she murmured as she snuggled into his chest and rubbed her cheek against it. “Almost as soft as your fur used to be.” 

He chuckled. “I thought you’d like it.” 

The shop door opened and Mary Margaret entered. 

“Hey, Emma,” she said, not looking at them as she rummaged in her bag. “ I have to get to school but I just wanted to be sure you were okay, since you were closed yesterday. And yes I know you’re usually really tired after Samhain but I thought I’d check in anyway. Aha, _there_ they are. Classroom keys, thought I’d left them at home.” She looked up, grinning. “Oh, hey Killian.” 

Emma and Killian exchanged a glance and waited. 

Mary Margaret’s eyes darted from Emma to Killian and back again and her bright smile began to fade. She opened her mouth then closed it again. Her forehead wrinkled. She began to blink rapidly and pointed at Killian with a shaking finger. 

“What… you’re… who…” she stuttered. “You are Killian… aren’t you?” 

“Aye,” he replied, short and sharp like a bark, and Mary Margaret’s eyes bugged. 

“Oh my god,” said Emma, elbowing him in the ribs. “Do you _have_ to?” 

Mary Margaret’s eyes were so wide Emma was afraid she’d lose them. “But you’re… how… what… _WHAT?_ ”

Emma took pity on her. “Killian was cursed,” she said. 

“Cursed,” repeated Mary Margaret. 

“Yep. By Cora, actually.” 

“Cora— wait, my stepmother Cora?”

“Mmm hmm. Remember I told you I thought she might be a practitioner.” 

“I—” Mary Margaret swayed slightly and Emma darted over to catch her before she could fall. “This is a lot to take in,” she gasped. 

“I get it,” said Emma. “Really I do.” She rubbed her friend’s back in a soothing motion as Mary Margaret concentrated on breathing. “And I hate to put pressure on you,” Emma continued, “but actually I’m glad you’re here because Killian and I could really use your help.”

“Well, I mean, of course I’ll help you if I can,” said Mary Margaret, once her shock had passed. “What do you need?”

“Do you think you and David could come to my house tonight?” asked Emma. “We’ll give you dinner. Killian’s promised to cook.”

“Come to your house,” repeated Mary Margaret, eyes bugging again. 

“Yep.” 

“Your _house_?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Your house where I’ve never once been because you never invite people there, even though I’ve been your best friend for ten years?”

“Ah. Yes, that’s the one.” 

“And you want us to _walk_ there, I suppose?” Mary Margaret had gone into full teacher mode, hands on her hips and eyes shooting daggers. Emma had to make a conscious effort not to squirm, and not to hex Killian who was leaning against the apothecary counter, trying without much success to stifle his laughter. 

“You’ll have to really,” she told Mary Margaret. “There’s no road.” 

“So you want David and me to walk through the _forest?_ After _dark?_ ”

“Yeah, well the forest right now isn’t as scary as it used to be,” began Emma, trailing off when Mary Margaret fixed her with the Look she gave her students when they refused to share their coloured pencils.“But Killian and I will walk with you if it makes you nervous,” she hastened to add. 

Mary Margaret took a deep breath, then another. Then she nodded. “I think… we’d like that. The company and the dinner.”

“Great.” Emma sighed in relief and sent a fervent prayer to the goddess that she would never have to see Mary Margaret’s teacher face again. “How about you meet us back here at about six?” 

“Okay.” 

“And don’t tell Dave about me,” Killian added, with a wicked grin. “I’d like it to be a surprise.” 

~~ 🌕 ~~

At ten minutes to six that evening the streets of downtown Storybrooke were largely deserted, which is unfortunate as anyone who had been on them would have been treated to the sight of the town sheriff being dragged down Main Street by the hand, ruthlessly and at breakneck speed, by the fifth grade teacher. 

“What is all this about?” David grumbled. “I know you’ve always wanted to see Emma’s house but this is a bit extreme.” 

“It’s not about the house,” said Mary Margaret impatiently, then amended. “Well, it is a little bit about the house. But mostly it’s about something I’ve been dying to tell you all day but I _promised_ I wouldn’t and you know how I am with secrets, David, I’ve deleted at least ten texts to you spilling the whole thing and I can’t _take_ it anymore. Would you _hurry,_ we’re nearly there.” 

Seconds later she flung open the shop door and pulled him inside, to where Emma was just finishing counting the register. 

“Hey, I’m nearly done,” she said, carefully ignoring the buzzing excitement that was emanating from Mary Margaret in almost visible waves. 

David looked around, trying to figure out what had his wife in such a tizzy. He didn’t blink when Killian sauntered out of the back room, though he did scowl, as he had every time he’d seen that dog.

_Hold up,_ thought David. 

“Mary Margaret,” Killian said, kissing her cheek. “Lovely to see you again.” He nodded at David. “Dave.” 

David stared for a moment then his face took on the deeply satisfied expression of one who had guessed right all along. “Well at least you didn’t lick her face,” he said. 

“Not anymore, mate,” said Killian. 

“KillianwascursedandCoradiditbutEmmabrokehiscursebykissinghimcanyoubelieveit?” said Mary Margaret, all in one breath. 

“I always knew there was something off about you,” said David, then his eyes narrowed. “Where did you get those clothes?” 

“Shop down the road,” replied Killian. “Thank goodness no one thought to cancel my credit cards.” 

“And what exactly were you wearing _before_ you went to the shop down the road?”

“I was dressed when I was cursed and still dressed when I became uncursed,” said Killian with a smirk. “Good bloody thing too as I wouldn’t have fancied a stroll through the forest of a frosty November morning _tackle out_ , as it were.” 

David opened his mouth again but Emma interrupted. “Stop interrogating him, David, you’re off duty. And anyway, we’ll tell you the whole story over dinner,” she said. “Let’s get going.” 

But Mary Margaret couldn’t wait and she peppered Killian with questions as they walked, and by the time Emma was speaking the words to allow her and David past the garden wards she had pried the entire story from him. 

“I just can’t believe it,” she said for the millionth time as she sat with Emma and David on the sofa while Killian prepared dinner. “I mean, I can believe Cora is evil and I can believe Killian has been a man all this time. He wasn’t really that convincing as a dog, was he? Now that I really think about it, I mean.” 

“ _I_ always suspected,” said David smugly.

“You always suspected he was really a history professor cursed by your stepmother-in-law as part of her attempt to flood this world with dark magic?” said Emma, with admirably restrained sarcasm. “That’s some killer detective work right there.” 

David had the grace to look chastened. “Okay, point taken, but I _did_ always think he wasn’t quite right as a dog.” 

“Me too,” said Mary Margaret decidedly.

“Well don’t tell him that,” laughed Emma, “He’s very proud of his dog cosplay.”

Killian called to them that dinner was nearly ready, and Emma led her friends into the kitchen where the large table was set for five. 

“Are you expecting someone else?” asked David. 

“Yeah, I am,” said Emma, looking slightly shifty. “And I’m gonna need you guys to trust me.” 

“Trust you?” 

“Yeah.” The wards around the garden sounded an alarm, and Emma and Killian exchanged glances. “That’ll be her,” said Emma. “I’ll be right back.” 

She returned a few moments later, accompanied by Regina. 

David and Mary Margaret gaped. 

“Regina is here by my invitation,” said Emma, before they could speak. “She’s going to help us.” 

“Help us… how?” asked Mary Margaret.

“Against my mother,” Regina replied. “Miss Swan—” she took a deep breath and started again. “ _Emma_ has asked for my assistance in defeating her.” 

“I feel like I’m way behind here. Why does she need to be defeated?” asked David. “Didn’t you take care of that on Samhain?”

“We’ll explain everything over dinner,” said Emma. “And our plan. But first, Regina has something else she’d like to say to you.” 

She gave Regina an expectant look and the dark haired woman grimaced slightly before turning to Mary Margaret. “I want to apologise,” she said. 

“A— what?” said Mary Margaret faintly. 

Emma wondered if she should feel guilty for piling yet another shock on Mary Margaret, who had already had quite the day. But she needed her friend to trust Regina. 

“For the way I treated you,” Regina elaborated. “When we were growing up, and—” she swallowed hard. “—just before your wedding. I owe you an apology for that as well,” she said, turning to David. “I could make excuses, but I won’t. I was awful, and the reasons why don’t matter. I just— I wanted to say I’m truly sorry, and I am going to do better. In the future.” 

The room was dead silent for an uncomfortable moment, the only sound the hissing and bubbling of the food on the stove. Then Mary Margaret stood and approached Regina. Tentatively she put her arms around her stepsister, ignoring the other woman’s flinch. “I accept your apology,” she said. 

Regina’s shoulders slumped as the tension drained from her body, and she actually patted Mary Margaret’s back. “Thank you,” she whispered. 

Emma smiled and Killian put his arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple. “Well done, love,” he murmured in her ear. “I think the food’s all ready, now. Shall we eat?”

“Yeah. Let’s eat.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the sixth chapter of my four part story, the absolute and final last one. THE LAST, DAMMIT. This has been the most challenging story I've written and I hope you have enjoyed it. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> In this chapter Cora gets what’s coming to her and there is an epilogue so fluffy you’ll need to see your dentist after reading.

The fireplace in Emma’s living room was vastly too big for it, the raw grey slab of the stone mantel much too heavy and the carved pilasters beneath far too slender for their task. The hearth was too deep and too wide and protruded into the room much farther than it should, and the firebox put Killian in mind of the gates of Hell itself. 

Yet the firelight emanating from this behemoth was playful, dancing a merry path about the room and gilding everything within in a flickering golden glow. Its delicate radiance illuminated the overstuffed sofa where David and Mary Margaret sat with their hands clasped and looks of solemn concentration on their faces, skittered off the un-curtained window behind them and away from the darkness of the night beyond, valiantly attempted to soften the strain in Regina’s expression and posture as she sat stiffly in the corner armchair, speaking only when spoken to. 

It positively caressed Emma’s face, thought Killian, tracing the contours of her round cheeks and determined jaw, of that dimple in her chin he never passed up the opportunity to kiss. It shone through her hair as she paced along the hearth, brightening the loose waves that tumbled down her back with such a glow he fancied she was part of the flames. 

Firelight made him whimsical, he reflected. 

“So does everyone understand?” Emma was saying as Killian forced his wandering mind to focus. 

“Not entirely,” said David. “But I think I know what you want us to do.” 

“We know our part,” agreed Mary Margaret. 

“All right then.” Emma clapped her hands together. “I think we’re ready. Regina, Killian? Ready?” 

“Aye, love.” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Let’s get started.” 

She took a deep breath and reached for Killian’s hand. He clasped hers firmly, reassuringly. 

“All right, love?” he asked, keeping his voice low for her ears alone.

“Yeah,” she murmured back. “I’ve just never had anyone in the old part of my house before. Not on purpose anyway.” She squeezed his hand. “It feels weird, is all.” 

Hand in hand with Killian, Emma led the small group along the dark corridor to the back of her house, smirking when Mary Margaret and David gaped openly as the stone doorway appeared in the wall and swung wide at her silent bidding, but smiling in understanding when Regina gaped openly at the workroom with its long table strewn with the ingredients and equipment for her spells. Hastily Emma gathered together several small glass bottles and linen bags, plus four engraved silver bowls and the star-strewn blanket Killian recognised from the night she’d given him his silver paw, tumbling them all into a wicker basket with a long, looping handle. Clasping the basket tightly she indicated for them to follow her and headed with a determined stride up the stone stairs that led to one of her towers. Not the library tower. The other one. 

The stairs wound up and up and up, curving through a blinding darkness that had the four of them stumbling and holding on to each other for safety, following Emma’s sure steps by sound alone. Higher and higher still the staircase spun, far higher than the one leading to the library, spiralling ever upwards until they were dizzy, until they had lost all sense of time or space, until what could have been hours or minutes or inches or miles later they stumbled, breathless and disoriented, into a chamber. 

It was a circular chamber, vast and echoing in a way that was surely impossible for any place atop such a tall tower to be, formed of seamless stone walls lined with unlit torches and illuminated by a faint, bluish glow from an unseen source. Emma set her basket on the floor and withdrew some long-handled matches from one of the linen bags. “We need to light the torches,” she said. “Normally I’d do it with magic, but I’d like to hold on to what little I’ve got.” 

Mary Margaret’s face creased in a worried frown. “Sweetie, are you sure we have to do this tonight? Can’t it wait until you’ve got more of your magic back?”

“Mary Margaret you remember what she said, the low magic is part of the plan,” David reminded her. 

“I know, but…” 

“It’ll be fine Mary Margaret,” Emma assured her. “If everything goes well—” 

“ _If,_ ” muttered Regina.

“—then I’ll only need a bit of my own,” continued Emma, ignoring her. “I just don’t want to waste any resources. Just in case.” 

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Mary Margaret, and took the long, slow-burning match Emma handed her, striking it against the wall and gasping at the bright glare of its flame. 

As Mary Margaret and David lit the torches Emma and Regina spread the starry blanket over the centre of the floor, placing the silver bowls at each of its corners and filling each with sea salt and thyme and three dried nettle leaves. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any mugwort?” Regina frowned at the contents of the bowls. “Or at least a bit of cinnamon bark?”

“Nope,” said Emma brightly, though Killian could feel her tension. “Simple is better, I think.” She handed Regina a bottle of sea salt then closed her eyes and breathed deeply, centring herself as the other woman sprinkled the salt in a circle around the blanket. 

When the torches were lit and the circle prepared, Emma, Regina, Mary Margaret, and David joined hands and stepped as one over the salt circle and onto the blanket. The instant they did, the salt began to glow and energy sparked between their hands. 

“Don’t let go!” said Emma sharply as Mary Margaret flinched in surprise. “Whatever happens you have to hold the circle!” 

Emma bent her head and began to murmur in a language Killian had read but never heard, using the energy of the circle to boost her small store of magic. Soon smoke began to rise from the centre of the blanket, thickening and taking on the purplish-blue hue that still had the power to make his blood run cold, before dissipating to reveal a surprised and extremely displeased Cora. 

“What is this?” she snapped, scowling at the faces surrounding her, her gaze flitting scornfully over Emma’s and Mary Margaret’s before landing on her daughter. “Regina?” she frowned. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Stopping you, Mother,” said Regina. “As I should have done long ago.” 

“Pah,” spat Cora. “ _You_ can’t stop me.” 

“I _couldn’t_ ,” Regina conceded. “I have help now.” 

“Help? From the forest witch and her household spells? From Leopold’s doormat of a daughter and her very upright husband? That’s your help?”

“Not all of it,” said a deep voice that Killian barely recognised as his own. 

Shadows shifted between the torches on the wall as he stepped forward from his hiding place among them, and when the torchlight made him fully visible Cora’s face for the first time showed genuine fear. 

“You!” she gasped. “You’re— but— _how?_ ”

“You might well ask that,” said Killian coolly. “Though you needn’t look far for the answer. _You_ did this.” 

“I— _what?_ ”

Killian smiled, a sharp, vicious smile, remembering Cora’s arrogance and her presumption, and the cold deliberation with which she had ripped his life to shreds. Part of him, the dark part deep inside, was going to bloody enjoy this.

“All these years you’ve been obsessed with that prophecy,” he said advancing on the circle as near as he dared, “You spent your life trying to interpret it and to find a way to thwart it, but my dear Cora what you have always failed to understand is that _everything_ you’ve done, from the moment you found the first scrap of parchment, has only aided that prophecy in coming true.”

“Impossible.” Cora managed a sneer, but it was a feeble thing. “You know nothing of prophecies, or magic.”

“Oh, on the contrary darling, I know quite a bit about both. Prophesied events may come to pass or they may not,” he glanced at Emma, who gave him a small smile. “But whatever they do they don’t do it in a vacuum. People are inevitably involved and where there are people there is _always_ a choice. You for example chose to involve me in all of this—” 

“I didn’t _choose_ you, I was Shown.” 

“Perhaps, but it was your choice to destroy my life in an attempt to get me under your control. Had you left me alone I would have lived out my life in the navy, never even believing in magic. I would certainly never have met and fallen in love with a witch.”

Cora shook her head, denying his words, though he could see they had shaken her. “No. No, you’re wrong, I had to stop you, you were _destined_ to meet her—” 

“I met her because you brought me to her forest and turned me into a dog,” retorted Killian. “You thought you were getting rid of me but it was only as a dog that I was in a position to stay close to her and protect her, and it was only as a dog that I could have defeated your wolves.” 

Realisation was breaking across Cora’s face, chased by horror. “You were as good as dead,” she whispered. “There’s no way you could have survived…” 

“Left to my own devices I surely wouldn’t have. But there was this connection I’d forged with a witch, you see, which allowed her to heal me. All of me.” He held up his left hand, whole and pulsing with a faint glow of magic. Cora took a stumbling step back, her fear palpable as she pressed against the barrier of the magic circle that held her. 

“That’s not possible—” 

“No indeed, I think we can all agree that it is quite _im_ possible. And yet, here we have it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, _love_ , why exactly did you take my hand in the first place?”

“I had a vision,” choked Cora, too deep in shock to attempt a lie. “I saw— I saw that _she_ would need it. Your hand, your help. I saw—” she broke off on a strangled gasp, eyes darting all around, taking in the circle on the floor, the faces surrounding her, Killian and his glowing hand. The fear in her eyes turned to panic. “I saw _this_.” 

“And what precisely is _this?_ ”

“My end.” Her terrified gaze met Killian’s calm one. “Are you— going to kill me?”

Killian paused before replying, keeping his eyes fixed on Cora, allowing the silence to stretch out until she began to writhe. “I am not,” he said at last. “But make no mistake, this _is_ your end.” 

“Cora Mills!” Emma’s voice resonated though the chamber. “Your actions have been seen, and now I offer you a choice.”

Cora jumped and spun around to face Emma. “A choice?”

“There is always a choice.” Emma's eyes met Killian’s, and he nodded. “You have shown you cannot be trusted to wield the High Magic. Your choice is to voluntarily relinquish it and work only the household spells, or to be cut off from all magic forever.” 

Cora’s eyebrows snapped together as the hot flash of her anger burnt away her fear. “You can’t cut me off from my power!” she snarled.

“Oh yeah?” retorted Emma. “Try me.” 

Cora sputtered indignantly. “With what magic?” she sneered. “You used all yours on Samhain, and my pathetic daughter’s isn’t nearly enough.” 

“That’s true,” agreed Emma. “I’ve got no magic left.”

“Then how do you _possibly_ presume to—

“ _I_ don’t have magic,” Emma interrupted. “But _he_ does.” 

Killian could sense the magic sleeping deep within the stones of the chamber, the same stones, the same magic, that had answered Emma’s desperate call mere days before, the magic that had healed his broken body and returned his stolen hand. He called to it now, and though he had no idea how he was doing so he pulled the magic into his hand and sent it on along the connection he shared with Emma, letting his magic flow into her as she had done for him. 

Cora couldn’t see the source of his power —its nature was too foreign to her— but she could sense magic flowing into Emma, could see her channel it, weave it, and _everyone_ could see when that magic flared into a blaze of light that Emma deftly moulded into a fearsome blade, long and lightly curved, and sharper than any steel. 

She grasped this blade and held it before her as Cora herself began to glow, the energy of her own magic becoming visible as wisps of purple light that curled in gentle waves around her, linking her to the source of her own power. As Cora watched in growing horror these wisps wound around each other, twisting and knotting together to form a single rope roughly the thickness of Killian’s wrist. The rope drew taut beneath Emma’s blade, quivering in anticipation of her strike. 

“What is your choice?” Emma asked. “Will you promise to relinquish the High Magic?”

Hatred flashed in Cora’s eyes. “Never—” she hissed, grasping the purple rope and whipping it away, but Emma brought the blade down faster than the human eye could see and sliced the rope clean through, severing Cora’s connection to her power forever. 

Cora gasped then cried out in pain, staring at the fading rope with eyes dulled by uncomprehending horror. “No,” she moaned. “No you didn’t, you can’t! _You can’t do this to me!_ ” Collapsing into a heap on the floor, she clutched at the purple rope, fisting her hands into the starry blanket and pounding them against the floor as it faded away into nothing. 

Emma heaved a deep breath and let go both of Killian’s magic and the hands she held, breaking the circle. The glow in the salt winked out and David and Mary Margaret fell into each other’s arms, clinging tightly and whispering as they attempted to process all they had seen. Regina knelt beside her keening mother and cautiously embraced her. 

“Come, Mother,” she said gently. “I’ll take you home.” She stood and pulled Cora to her feet, raising her hand to poof them away but before she could Emma stepped forward.

“Wait,” she said, searching for the right words to express her feelings. It was— not precisely sympathy she felt; Cora more than deserved this punishment and the world needed protection from her, but Emma knew how devastating losing magic must be to a witch and her kind heart wished to help. She laid a hand on Cora’s arm. 

“You’re welcome in my shop any time,” she said. “You may not have power anymore but there is magic everywhere, and I have things that can help you connect with it, help you find your way again. Both of you,” she added, looking at Regina.

“Never,” snapped Cora, yanking her arm away, but Regina nodded. 

“Thank you,” she said. “In time, I think we might take you up on that.” 

“Take all the time you need.” 

Understanding flashed between her and Regina, then red smoke swirled and both Mills women were gone. 

Emma stared at the spot they had vacated, feeling relief and sadness and a mess of other things she didn’t have the energy to sort through. She heard Killian come up behind her, felt his arms wrap around her. His presence was so soothing, she thought with a sigh, turning in his embrace and snuggling against him, pressing her nose into his neck. 

“Well done, my love,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “How do you feel?”

“Gah, I don’t know,” she laughed. “Don’t ask me that just yet. Let’s just— is it weird that all I really want is a cup of tea?” 

“Not in the least,” said Killian solemnly. “Tea cures all ills. Come, darling, I’ll put the kettle on.”

💐💐 💐💐💐

_Seven years later._

The 31st of October was a cool and misty day that year, with pearly grey skies and the scents of wood smoke and frost clinging in the chill dampness of the air. By its afternoon much of the mist had burned away, save for a stray wisp or two weaving out from the forest and down Hornbeam Street to curl around the windows of the apothecary shop where Emma hummed to herself as she arranged the Samhain candles on their elegantly carved shelf. She paused neither in her arranging nor her tune, not even turning around when she sensed what Killian would call “a disturbance in the Force” in the vicinity of the table behind her, laden with caramel apples for the trick-or-treaters. She did, however, smile at the sharp hiss that resulted from someone attempting to touch those very apples and encountering a protection spell instead. 

“Ow!” cried a small, indignant voice. “Mom! That hurt!” 

“Stop trying to snitch apples and it won’t hurt,” said Emma reasonably. She didn’t need to look to sense her daughter’s pout. “You can have one in an hour when everyone comes for tea.” 

“But I’ll want soul cakes then!” 

“So have soul cakes.” 

“But then I can’t have a caramel apple!” 

Emma finally turned around, biting the inside of her cheek to hide her smile at the mutinous expression on the small face, so like Killian’s and framed by his dark hair, brightened in their child by glints of red, but with Emma’s own green eyes. Eyes that were at present narrowed in frustration. 

“Life is full of tough choices, kid,” said Emma. “If the worst you ever face is caramel apple or soul cake, you can count yourself lucky.” 

“That doesn’t help,” grumbled the small girl. “Grownups never say anything helpful.” 

Rowenna Jones was many things: five years old (five and _a half_ , she would insist), an apprentice witch, a gifted storyteller, the fastest runner in her kindergarten class, and the sworn enemy of her cousin Leo. What she most definitely was not, was anyone’s fool. 

Emma laughed. “That’s very true. You still can’t have an apple now.” 

“Hmmph,” said Rowenna, and stomped back to the corner —the same corner where her father had once spent his days curled up on his dog bed— and sat down at the child sized table and chairs that now occupied it. “I guess I’ll just colour then,” she said with the dramatic huff familiar to all long-suffering children. 

“You could help me arrange the candles,” suggested Emma. 

“No, they look good like that,” said Rowenna, after an appraising glance at the shelf. “Can I do some magic?”

“What magic do you want to do?”

Rowenna raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth quirked in an unconscious imitation of her father’s wicked smirk. “Can I hex Leo?”

“Definitely not,” said Emma. _Nice bargaining technique, kid_ , she thought but did not say. 

“Welllll, can I practice lighting candles, then?”

“That you can do.” 

Emma took the practice candle from behind the apothecary counter and put it down on Rowenna’s table. “Remember to feel your magic first,” she instructed her daughter. “Reach out and touch it, make sure it’s welcoming to you, then pull it up through yourself and focus on sparking the flame.” 

The child’s small forehead creased in concentration and Emma watched carefully as she gathered the threads of her magic and focused them on the candle wick. After a moment the wick flared into bright flame and both Emma and Rowenna clapped. 

“Well done, sweetie,” said Emma, extinguishing the flame with her own magic and giving her daughter a one-armed hug. “Keep practicing. Try to do it without thinking so hard, remember that magic is as much feeling as thought. 

Determination settled on the child’s brow, yet another thing she’d inherited from Killian. “I’m gonna do it so fast, Dad and Liam won’t believe their eyes,” she declared. 

“There’s a goal,” said Emma. “You do that.” 

~~💐~~

Half an hour later Rowenna’s candle-lighting speed had improved noticeably and Emma had rearranged her shelves six times as customers flooded in to buy her wares. She was sold out of bread and cider and had given most of the caramel apples to trick or treaters. Even Alexandra came in for one, though she was now twelve and that morning had rejected the pink princess dress her mother tried to give her, informing Ashley that trick or treating was “for kids” and everyone cool was going to Gideon Gold’s Halloween party instead. 

“Well, I guess you’re not cool, then,” Ashley had retorted. “Try again next year.” 

So Alexandra bought her own Halloween costume with her babysitting money and went to the shop for a caramel apple and a chat with Emma. Who did a sharp double take at the sight of her. 

“Are you kidding me with that hat?” Emma demanded. 

“No,” grumbled Alexandra, hunching her shoulders under Emma’s disapproving stare. “It was the only witch costume the store had.” 

“You couldn’t have chosen a different costume?” 

“All they’ve got are princess dresses and like, sexy nurses which my mom would actually kill me if I wore.” She shrugged. “I’ve been a princess every year, I wanted something different.” 

Rowenna bit her lip as she watched this exchange, torn between her admiration for the older girl she idolised and indignation on behalf of witch-kind. “I like the dress,” she ventured. “It looks like what we wear for Samhain only black.” Her face brightened as she had an idea. “OH! Maybe you could make a leaf crown instead of a hat? Mom says some witches wear leaf crowns.” She looked imploringly at her mother. 

“They do,” confirmed Emma. “I could probably conjure one, if you like.” 

Not even Alexandra’s newfound adolescent sullenness could mask her excitement at _that_ prospect. “Okay,” she agreed. 

“One condition,” said Emma. “You have to let me burn the abomination on your head.” 

Alexandra removed the pointed black hat she wore and handed it to Emma, who took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll be right back,” she said. 

“Look what I can do, Lex!” cried Rowenna, waving Alexandra over to her table. “I can do it really fast now.” 

Quick as the flash of the flame itself she lit the candle with her magic. Alexandra’s eyebrows rose despite herself. “That _is_ pretty cool,” she conceded, and Rowenna glowed brighter than her candle. 

Emma returned a few minutes later carrying a delicate tiara woven of slender willow branches interlaced with hawthorn and red maple leaves, whose dark auburn shades suited Alexandra’s colouring beautifully. 

Alexandra’s mouth dropped open and then she squealed, completely forgetting that enthusiasm was for babies. “Wow!” she cried. “That’s so amazing! Oh, thank you!” Emma helped her adjust it to the perfect angle on her head and let the girl admire herself in the glass of the display window as she grabbed her besom broom to greet a new flock of trick or treaters. 

“Are you ever going to fly on that thing?” asked Alexandra, once the children had gone. “You’ve been saying you do for years, but I’ve never seen you.” 

This time Rowenna couldn’t stifle her scoff, not even to keep Alexandra’s favour. “No one _actually_ flies on broomsticks,” she huffed. 

“Wha— really?” Alexandra gaped at Emma, who shrugged. “I actually believed you, you know!” 

“Sorry?” said Emma.

“You should be,” said Alexandra. 

~~💐~~

Soon Alexandra left to show off her crown to her friends and Rowenna returned to practicing with her candle. Emma watched with a soft smile as magic flowed through her daughter, smooth and steady and controlled with an instinctive skill that made Emma swell with pride.

Rowenna lit and extinguished the candle faster and faster until it was blinking like a strobe light. She giggled at the effect and the thrill of her magic, and Emma was just about to step in before she got too carried away, when Rowenna’s face brightened with an eager expression. She extinguished the candle and turned towards the door. “They’re coming!” she called. “Mommy, they’re almost here!” 

Less than a minute later the door opened and Killian strolled in, a small puppy with floppy ears and pale gold fur dancing energetically at his heels. Yipping excitedly, the puppy ran to Emma and bounced around her knees in a brief hello before bounding over to Rowenna and jumping in her lap to attack her face with enthusiastic, sloppy kisses. She giggled and pushed him away. “Stop it, Liam! Get down!” 

Emma put her hands on her hips and glared at her husband. “Did you let him walk the whole way?” 

“He wanted to!” protested Killian, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “You know he loves to explore the forest. And it’s easier than carrying him.” 

“Hmmph,” huffed Emma, sounding exactly like her daughter, though she softened into his embrace and curled her own arm around his waist in return. “Is he hungry?”

“I expect so.” Killian nuzzled her ear. “He’s a ravenous beast puppy, as you know.” 

Emma sighed as he tickled the sensitive spot on her neck then turned in his arms and kissed him hard. “Can you watch the shop for a minute while I go feed him?” she asked against his lips.

“Of course, love,” he murmured, brushing her nose with his as they exchanged sappy grins. 

“Daddy, you can watch me light the candle! I can do it sooo fast!” called Rowenna, sensing that her parents were nearly done with the mushy stuff. There was _no_ talking to them until they’d kissed at least three times, this she knew from lifelong experience.

“Well, that you _must_ show me.” Killian planted a final quick kiss on his wife before turning his attention to his daughter, exclaiming in admiration as she lit the candle for him and giving her a proud hug. 

Emma scooped up the still-bouncing puppy and cradled him in the crook of her arm, scratching his tummy gently with her fingertips. “Time to change now, kid, if you want some food,” she said. Liam licked her chin then closed his eyes, shimmered gently with a soft golden light, and Emma was holding a plump blond baby boy with eyes the same grey as the clouds outside. Cuddling him close she kissed his cheeks with silly smacking noises and he gurgled happily, patting her face with his tiny hands and making her heart clench with love and a trace of awe. Even after six months she still marvelled at him, at the ease of his transformation and the pure instinct of his magic. Her family’s witch magic manifesting in her daughter was something Emma had expected, something she knew how to deal with, but a shapeshifting son whose eyes were always the colour of the sky had taken her rather by surprise. 

She blamed Killian. Who was more than happy to accept full responsibility. Who was, in fact, _thrilled_ to have a son who preferred to be a dog. 

“After all, love, it’s far more fun to be a six month old puppy than a six month old baby,” he’d pointed out just the day before. “Considerably greater mobility, and that’s just for a start. Perhaps he’ll choose to be human more often when he’s a bit older.” 

Liam’s cheerful babble interrupted her musings. “Well, I hope you’ll have a nice long nap after your dad wore you out letting you walk all the way here,” she remarked as she carried him to the small room at the back of the shop. There she fed him and burped him, rubbed his back and hummed a lullaby until he fell into a doze, then laid him down gently in the crib she’d tucked into the quietest corner of the room and tiptoed away to begin the preparations for tea, hoping he’d stay asleep. 

The scrabbling sound of puppy claws on hardwood and Rowenna’s shrieks of laughter informed her that that hope was a futile one. Emma sighed and decided to let Killian deal with it. 

When she came back into the shop with her tea tray piled high with Samhain treats David and Mary Margaret were there, she seated on the floor cooing over a delighted Liam and he attempting to police the children’s table where Leo was already squabbling with Rowenna over her crayons. Emma surreptitiously removed the practice candle from within her daughter’s range of magic while Killian poured tea for everyone, heavily diluting it with warm apple cider for the children. 

“So how was your day?” Emma inquired of the room at large, once everyone had been served. 

“Ugh,” groaned David. “Don’t ask.” 

“Why, mate, what happened?”

“I wish I knew. It seems like Leroy managed to obtain Doc’s Miata—

“—According to Granny he won it in some sort of bet,” Mary Margaret chimed in.

“—and he’s been driving it around like a maniac all day,” David concluded. 

“Ah,” said Emma, deadpan. “So that’s what that red blur was.” 

David shook his head. “I know you’re kidding, but also you’re _not_ _kidding._ He was pulled over for speeding six times, twice in fifteen minutes by the same officer. I finally had to put him in a holding cell to get him off the damn roads.” 

“Yip! Yip! Yip!” barked Liam in his tiny puppy voice, leaping out of Mary Margaret’s lap and jumping excitedly at the Main Street window. “Yip! Yip!” They all looked out the window to see Doc walking past, carrying a baseball bat and the air of one seeking bloody retribution. 

“Goddamn it,” growled David as he charged out the door. 

~~💐~~

David didn’t return. He sent Mary Margaret a terse text saying he’d see her at home that night, so after she finished her tea Mary Margaret collected Leo, wished everyone a happy Samhain, and took her leave.

Liam was sound asleep on Rowenna’s lap, draped across her legs in that boneless puppy way, but when Emma picked him up he yawned and shimmered back into a baby, snuggling against his mother and blowing bubbles of drool on her chest. 

“I’m gonna go put him down in the crib and hope he naps until closing,” whispered Emma. “Do you mind taking Wren back home with you?”

“What do you say, lass, shall we get the food ready for the bonfire?” asked Killian. 

“Yeah!” Rowenna jumped up from her chair. 

“Put your crayons away first,” Killian instructed, catching her shoulder before she could run out the door, “And don’t forget your jacket.” 

As Rowenna collected her crayons under Killian’s watchful eye, Emma slipped away with Liam, indulging herself in a brief cuddle before laying him in the crib, stroking his hair —the same colour and softness as his fur— until she heard Killian and Rowenna leave the shop. 

She tidied up the tea things and took them into the back, and when she returned to the shop Regina was waiting. 

Emma gave her a hug, which she returned warmly. Regina had warmed considerably in the past seven years, finally out from under her mother’s controlling thumb and now four years into a relationship with one of Killian’s old university colleagues, a widower with a young son who, Regina had once confessed to Emma, had brought out a maternal side in her she’d never known she had. 

“How’s everything?” asked Emma. _How’s Cora_ , she meant. 

Regina understood. “We’re doing a bonfire tonight,” she replied. “Mother lit the candles this morning.” 

“That’s fantastic!” 

“It really is.” Regina shook her head as a smile teased the corners of her mouth. “I honestly never thought I’d see the day.” 

“So do you think she’s really reconciled to everything?” 

“She still hates you,” said Regina bluntly. “And Killian even more. _And_ I suspect she still tries to summon magic sometimes.” 

“Well, no one changes overnight.” 

“No. And she is getting better.” 

“That’s something, anyway.” 

“That’s something,” Regina agreed. 

“And… you’re happy, right?” asked Emma cautiously. Regina could still be prickly about her personal life.

But Regina smiled, wide and soft and genuine. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m happy.”

“Well, that’s what matters.” 

“I suppose it is.” Regina allowed herself a brief squeeze of Emma’s hand. “Well, you’ve got things to do and I should be going. I’ll see you again at the solstice?”

“See you then. Blessed Samhain, Regina.” 

“Blessed Samhain.” 

~~💐~~

That evening Rowenna, dressed in a miniature version of her mother’s ceremonial gown and with green eyes huge at the momentous responsibility of the task, carried the oak log to the smouldering pile of wood in the fire circle and carefully placed it on the top. It burst instantly into flame and she started backwards in awe and alarm, reaching for Emma’s hand. Emma took it, partly to reassure her daughter and partly to complete the ritual, speaking the ancient words slowly so Rowenna could follow along, her small voice quavering slightly but never faltering. 

Killian sat on the porch steps watching them, Liam gurgling happily in his arms and his chest tight with pride and love and other emotions he couldn’t assign a name. Happiness was certainly one, he thought, and wonder. 

Emma and Rowenna finished their obeisance and Rowenna with a whoop of joy ran inside to get the food to roast in the fire. She returned less than a minute later balancing a tray of corn and squash precariously as she bounced down the stairs, and Liam began to squirm with intent.

“I suppose you want to go play,” said Killian. 

“Gurgle,” Liam replied.

“All right go on.”

His son’s body shimmered and glowed, and Killian’s arms were full of wiggling puppy. Liam covered his father’s face in wet kisses then leapt from his lap and raced out into the garden. 

“Be careful!” called Killian. 

“Yip!” barked Liam. 

Killian leaned back against the railing of the porch with a pensive sigh. The garden magic rose and swirled around him, ruffling his hair and tickling the sensitive spot just behind his ear. He laughed. 

“Hello,” he said. 

_You’re thinking hard._

“Just reflecting on the vagaries of fate,” said Killian with a wry grin. “Wondering…”

_Speak your mind, Killian Jones._

Killian chuckled. The garden magic had always understood him. 

“All this,” he said, gesturing to the fire, the feast, his family. “Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to deserve it, that’s all.” 

_You earned it for yourself,_ the magic whispered. _You protected her. You loved her. You were prepared to die for her. You made this happen._

“Did you know?” he asked it. “Did you always know who I was… to her?” 

_Yes. Who you_ could _be to her. But the future is never certain. There is always a choice._

“A choice,” echoed Killian, watching his wife and daughter tuck vegetables around the fire to roast and their son yip in delight as he chased the embers floating through the air. “I like that. It’s how it should be.” 


End file.
